


Red Dust

by Aaron_The_8th_Demon



Series: Red Dust [4]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, I did NOT intend for this fic to be so angsty and I apologize for that, M/M, Medical Procedures, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 69,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaron_The_8th_Demon/pseuds/Aaron_The_8th_Demon
Summary: Patrice and Brad's second long-term mission to Mars, complete with new team mates, language barriers, and floor hockey on their days off.





	1. Launch

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this one for a bit... originally I thought the series would be complete after just three short works, and now here I am with a fourth. Let it also be known that this is my first multi-chapter Marcheron fic. Hopefully I'll have it finished up soon.
> 
> All the named cosmonauts are players for Dynamo Moscow, which is the KHL team that I follow. Vadim Shipachyov is my favorite player; he's an alt-captain and if you need a goal scored right away, you send Vadim Shipachyov :)
> 
> Incidentally, if you haven't read the rest of the series but are starting this fic, you should at least go back and read the first one, [Breathe For Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18181325), because it's referenced fairly often in this fic and is the whole reason Bergy and Marchy got together in the first place in this universe. The other two are pretty much optional, but I wouldn't be offended if you checked them out too :)

It almost didn’t happen for them.

Brad had been nervous for all kinds of reasons - that now he’ll have to go back to wearing a suit when he had a near-fatal accident with one last time, that now he’ll have to re-adjust all over again (not only when they get there but once they’re back after another two years), that now they could be assigned to a different station that isn’t _Dacha,_ and so many other things besides… those are the big things and there are too many little things to list. But the thing Brad had been most scared of was that Patrice would be chosen, but not him.

“Bradley,” Patrice had told him back then, hands on his shoulders to ground him, “if they don’t pick you, then I won’t go.”

“But I want you to go,” was Brad’s stubborn answer. “You love it there.”

Then came the email the next week: they were both picked, and they’re on the same team with the same guys getting sent back to _Dacha._ So it’s not a problem. They’re still together. They’re going to be with their friends again, up in the red dust where the days are different from Earth and there’s no going outside without supplied air. Patrice is overjoyed, and so is Brad.

The process is similar to last time, except that they don’t have to do a year of extra training with Roscosmos because they’ve already been through that. Instead they’re disinfected, given physicals and psych evals, and they meet their team. The only difference is that _Dacha_ has had some additions made while they were home, and there are two new guys with them as well as a pair of cosmonauts. Patrice isn’t sure how he feels about that, because it might mean they’ll have to speak Russian the whole time and his Russian isn’t anywhere near as good as his French or his English. (Brad’s Russian is even worse; it’s a miracle he even passed the language test.)

Dmitry Kagarlitsky and Vadim Shipachyov are their cosmonauts, which makes Patrice feel better about it because he already kind of knows them from his first trip to Mars. Dima is a psychologist and Vadik is a health physicist, so both are being sent as researchers to make further studies on how humans adjust to living in an extraterrestrial environment. This time, though, it’s a bit different, because eight members of the group (ignoring the two Russians) are returning, so their new additions will act as a control sample. Jake DeBrusk is an engineer, which means that there are now three of those on this mission, and Charlie McAvoy is an electronics technician like Pasta (the difference being that Pasta goes outside to fix things a lot where Charlie will mostly be in the lab playing with the equipment to make sure it’s all in good working order).

“I spoke to ESA for you,” Tuukka informs Dima as the twelve of them are suiting up. “Since Roscosmos is being a bitch about it, Finland has agreed to help you out in your request.”

“Excellent, it’s very helpful,” Dima nods. “Unfortunately my government did not agree with what I had to say on the issue.”

“The supply is large enough that it may even last for a whole month,” Pasta jokes, giving a huge grin to Brad.

“What supply? What are we talking about?” Patrice’s boyfriend wonders.

Now, Backes starts laughing. “Studies in past,” he smiles. “Especially, Arctic or Antarctic stations, very big use of condoms for scientists there.” He’s the only one on the mission whose Russian is worse than Brad’s. “But, of course, Putin, he does not appreciate this, true Dima? So, Dima study, it needs this supplies. Most of us, of course, we not go after each other like this last time. But seems like one of you complained about this maybe, so this time, they get bring with us for study.”

Patrice and Brad both start laughing, but Charlie looks horrified. “You mean there wasn’t any last time you went?”

“None,” Brad giggles. “We pretty much just had to wait until we got back before we could do any of the exciting stuff… hey, Tuuks, is there lube in there, too?”

Tuukka rolls his eyes. “Yes, Marchy. Please try not to scream too loud.”

“Actually I’m usually louder,” Patrice manages to inform them with a straight face, purely for the groans and eye-rolls because he knows Brad thinks it’s funny.

Vadik makes a curious face and instead of pulling on his other glove like he should be doing, he digs through his rucksack for a notebook and scribbles something into it. Apparently they’re starting early. “So, you both are open about this relationship?”

“Oh yeah,” Brad nods, still shameless. “We got together about two-thirds of the way through the first mission and have been that way ever since. Pat said if I didn’t get picked to come he would’ve stayed behind with me, even.”

“Our bosses are going to reject these notes,” Dima murmurs to his colleague.

“I don’t care,” Vadik snorts. “We can send the data to ESA instead, they’ll publish it for us even if Roscosmos won’t.”

“Yes, can we finish getting ready now?” Z chuckles, poking Vadik in the shoulder kindly. “We do still have to get there, after all.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just so fascinating,” Vadik apologizes. “We can never even discuss this topic in Russia, except in a negative context of course. Vladimir Vladimirovich is strict about these things.”

The notebook is stowed again and they finish sealing themselves into their suits, ten gold-colored and two royal blue. Their rucksacks don’t have what most people would assume - all the uniforms are packed in crates already with two pairs of indoor boots per person, and of course the food is delivered by automated supply shuttles to be distributed from _Perviy Institut._ So, each astronaut or cosmonaut packs things to keep him company away from Earth: family pictures, novels, a laptop or an iPad, maybe a favorite blanket and the occasional soccer ball for hallway games. The unifying detail (besides printed photos) is that everyone is also bringing a stick for floor hockey. Pucks could be too damaging, though, even plastic ones, so instead two cans of punctured tennis balls are mixed in with Bruce’s things.

The launch is almost exactly the same as it was the first time, too, with Patrice and Vadik piloting while Brad makes fun of Pasta for being scared to fly and Backes has to throw up once they’ve finished with phase two. This time there’s Jake, also yanking off his helmet so he can vomit into a plastic bag. Once they’re in microgravity and headed for the jump-gate, several of them get out of their seats to look out the windows. Patrice did it the first time, too, and he prefers to think that it was how he met Brad… how he met the _real_ Brad, the intelligent and sweet guy under the chirping who’s scared of space suits and likes dumb phone games and can name all the moving parts in a surface rover. And Brad floats next to him at the window this time, too, helmets off and holding hands through their gloves.

In the background, there’s plenty going on that Patrice half-listens to while he watches Earth shrink away slowly. Dima is talking about his research plan to Charlie, who’s eager to listen and ask questions since this is his first time in space. Vadik is trying in vain to correct Backes’ grammar. Z and Tuukka are discussing how they can work around Charlie in their lab, but also possibly include him in research projects. Jake is asking Pasta question after question about doing work outside the complex (even though Patrice or Brad would better be able to answer those, since they’ve gone out much more often), and Pasta engages him enthusiastically. Bruce and Krej are the only ones not hassling anyone else, and in fact when Patrice looks he thinks Krej managed to even fall asleep.

“At least I got a new suit,” Brad mutters, completely randomly.

“Well, your old one did have to get patched, of course they got you a new one. This time we just need to make sure you can find your socks, and if you can’t you can just borrow mine.”

“Or I can just not jump around like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot, Bradley. It’s going to be fine, remember I’ll always breathe for you.”

Brad squeezes his hand a little tighter through their gloves. “Yeah, but you shouldnt’ve had to…”

“But I did. Come on, we don’t need to have this conversation again. I’ll make sure you’re safe out there, I always do.”

With their helmets off, they manage a brief kiss even with the bulk of their suits fighting them. Patrice has no doubt that Vadik saw it and will write all about them in that notebook once it’s accessible again, but he doesn’t really care. Let Russian scientists study him and Brad as much as they want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read something somewhere that scientists in Arctic and Antarctic research stations go through something insane like 16,000 condoms when said research stations have a couple thousand people inhabiting them (at most). It stood to reason that astronauts and cosmonauts in this situation, which is similar, would probably want to have those resources as well. However, Putin is a homophobic little bitch, so he and Roscosmos would probably forbid it due to the implications of men having sex with each other, which is why Tuukka spoke with ESA on everyone's behalf.
> 
> Regarding Backes' grammar while he's speaking Russian: this is actually pretty much how Russian sounds if you try to translate it directly and literally into English, so I figured it would be a good way to differentiate that he's speaking a language he doesn't know very well.
> 
> There are more chapters completed than just the first one. They're even here, sitting as "draft" chapters, and will not all be put up at once. I'm going to try and space things out this time.


	2. Arrival

“God, it’s so nice not to wear that damn thing anymore,” Brad groans, clearly meaning his pressure suit as he climbs onto his bunk and flops down against the mattress. They’re all in the same sleeping areas as last time, but now ten extra bunks have been added, which makes Patrice wonder what’s going to happen with these expansions. “Hey, Pat, how are the new kids doing?”

Patrice glances over - Charlie and Jake are sharing a bunk bed, just like him and his boyfriend, and they’re both taping photos of their parents and siblings to the walls by their pillows.

“They’re fine, why? I think they’ll adjust in a couple days.”

“Oh, yeah, sure they will,” Brad agrees. “Mark my words, they’re gonna end up doing the same thing we did.”

“Starting a relationship after a near-death experience in the field?” Patrice tries to joke.

“Yup.” Brad turns over and reaches, so Patrice hands him his rucksack and a roll of tape. “I give them a month.”

“It took us sixteen months.”

“Yeah, but I’m stupid and you’re oblivious. They’ll figure it out sooner.” Brad pulls out his own plastic folder of pictures and starts placing them. Patrice watches him for a minute and smiles when the one of them with their parents camping at the lake is attached to the low ceiling so that Brad can lay back and stare up at it as he’s falling asleep. “You like what you see, Pat?” he teases.

“Maybe,” Patrice smiles, standing on the edge of his bunk so his face is level with his boyfriend’s. “You’re all sentimental right now, it’s cute.”

“You’re cute,” Brad shoots back like that’s somehow an insult. Then he rolls over for a kiss. “You want the tape back?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Get a room, you two!” Pasta shouts through from several bunks down.

“We would if we could… oh, yeah, you should warn the rookies not to go near the showers when we both get back from a mission, too!”

“That’s actually a very good point,” Tuukka grumbles. “I wasn’t kidding before about the screaming.”

“We’ll do our best to be quiet,” Patrice offers right at the second that Brad yells out “No promises, Tuuks!”

He’s busy hanging up photos on the wall by his mattress, but he can almost hear the collective eye-roll. “Should we just give all twenty cases of rubbers to them and get it over with?” Backes laughs.

“It’d probably be a time-saver,” Krej agrees. Trust the two medical guys to be the most unbothered by this.

Patrice is glad that Brad gets distracted putting his laptop and several seasons of _South Park_ on the shelf bolted to the wall by his head, because otherwise he’d probably just say more and more inappropriate things. Silently, though, he also wonders if there are only the normal-sized condoms or if they also have the larger ones. If not, it won’t be the end of the world, but he’ll miss getting his turn at being on top.

Once everyone’s settled and unpacked, they all go to the cafeteria for a very late dinner and discover that it’s slightly less cramped than before thanks to the additions. They all talk about themselves a little, and Patrice notices that Brad’s assessment may have been right on the money - Charlie and Jake are clinging to each other. It turns out they were both in the same group during training at Roscosmos, so they’re already familiar and the ten strangers around them are probably kind of intimidating.

On the other hand, both cosmonauts are excited to get started on their research project, and are especially interested to see what happens with Brad and Patrice. Because apparently their relationship is a soap opera. (Actually, Dima and Vadik would never have the chance to observe anything like them in Russia given the extent of the systemic homophobia, but being scientists are much more open-minded about it than most Russians and so are extremely interested to see it in action.)

“Marchy, can it be possible for us to start with you?” Dima asks diplomatically. “It seems unlikely you’ll need to be sent for anything tomorrow, and we must interview everybody by the end of the week.”

“Sure,” Brad agrees. “You’ll need all day, though, I’m fucking fascinating.”

“You know when I said that it wasn’t meant as a compliment, right?” Tuukka puts in.

“No, just an hour or two should be fine,” Vadik chuckles. “And Patrice, we would like you immediately after him. Dima could publish a whole journal about you two and none of it would be redundant information in our country.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Patrice takes a bite of his nutrient paste and grimaces at the bland flavor. It’s one of the few things he didn’t miss about being here. “The only thing is when you’re interviewing us it would probably help to be in English… or if you ask in Russian but let us answer in English. Is that okay?”

“Of course. We were planning to do it in English anyway, especially for you, David,” Dima jokes, indicating Backes.

“That’s an excellent idea,” Z agrees. Of all the non-Russians, his Russian is the best, to the point where Patrice could confuse him for a native speaker if he didn’t already know better. “Now, are there things you need permission for?”

“Officially, no,” Dima answers slowly. “But if there are… well, more intimate details that people would prefer not to share, then that’s acceptable and they’ll be left out.”

“I don’t mind talking about sex,” Brad volunteers.

“We gathered that, yes,” Vadik laughs. “But it’s likely that other people don’t feel the same way. And your… what word is appropriate, here? I know there are several different things in English for this…”

“Boyfriend,” Patrice supplies, still in Russian.

“Yes. Your boyfriend may also be a bit more subdued.”

“I’m not,” he counters. “I’m quieter about it than he is, but it’s not a topic that scares me.”

“Alright, we can talk more about that later,” Bruce decides, putting a stop to the conversation. “Marchy, for your safety, you should probably stop going on about your relationship. We’re happy that you’re happy but some of your friends look like they’re ready to strangle you and our newest team mates probably aren’t interested in hearing it either. Vadik, Dima, please at least _try_ not to encourage him when you’re around everybody else. Now that that’s out of the way, Patrice, you and Pasta are going to take Jake to the oxygen garden tomorrow and then to the rover dock to show him the ropes. Z, I’m sure you can help Charlie get familiar with the lab. Krej, Backy, when they’re not interviewing people, feel free to start sharing your medical notes with Dima and Vadik. Tuuks, I know you already have a pile of things to do, so just try and resist the urge to kill anyone while you’re doing it. You can all go to bed now, and yes, Marchy, I do in fact mean ‘sleeping’ when I say that.”

Brad pretends to sulk, but Patrice already knew it wouldn’t be an issue to begin with because they’re both way too tired to do anything tonight. They all go back to their bunks and Brad crams in with him instead of climbing up, but Patrice doesn’t mind being a little squished because he’s used to his boyfriend hogging their bed anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some brief porn in the next chapter, just so everyone is forewarned.


	3. Last Week of April

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's sex in this chapter, just so you're warned. It's at the end though so it's not hard to skip over.

“…and so I run a diagnostic on it,” Pasta finishes, “but you don’t need to worry about that. Mostly you’ll get sent if something big is wrong, or to possibly help me do repairs on the sensors.”

“It’s so cool,” Jake marvels. “So… this whole thing is full of plants, and plants can grow fruit, so why can’t we have better food up here?”

“There’s no bees,” Patrice answers. “We’d have to pollinate all these plants by hand if we wanted to grow fruit.”

“Well… aren’t we allowed to work on independent projects? I know I’m not actually a scientist, but there could be a lot of benefits to it. Better food would mean better morale.”

“You’ll have to run it by Bruce and Z,” he points out. “I’m not the guy to talk to about plants, I fix rovers and run maintenance checks.”

“It’s an interesting idea, though,” Pasta remarks. “You should definitely ask.”

They unplug their suits from the wall supply and go through the airlock. Just because the oxygen garden has free oxygen inside it doesn’t mean they can take off their helmets - there’s an issue of contamination going in both directions. The air hasn’t gone through all the HEPA filters and the astronauts could have lab chemicals on their clothes that might damage the flora. Besides those things, the oxygen garden is only just warm enough for the plants to function, so while it's not frigid like the outside it's not nearly as warm as the complex. (Patrice just knows he’ll have to remind Brad about that when Brad inevitably suggests they come here to have sex.)

“Hey Bergy, weren’t you near here when Marchy ripped his suit?” Pasta wonders as they climb onto the ATV.

“Yeah, we were about ten minutes away. There’s some construction debris or something and it tore open his leg when he tripped and fell on it… thank god he didn’t actually get hurt. It could’ve turned out so much worse.”

“This is the guy who almost suffocated giving up his oxygen for Marchy, and he’s still only worried that Marchy didn’t get stabbed by whatever did the ripping,” Pasta snorts, obviously addressing Jake.

“Bergy, you’re so nice, how do you put up with Marchand?” Jake wonders. “I mean… he’s not bad or anything, but he’s so loud…”

Patrice thinks - he’s never had to categorize his relationship before. “He has a great sense of humor. He’s a lot smarter than he comes off as. He’s always honest with me, too, and I never have to try and guess what he’s thinking. He’s really affectionate. None of you guys get to see who he really is. Only I get to see him. And I love all of those things. Besides… he’s never boring.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Pasta agrees.

“But he’s so crazy,” Jake adds.

“He is. I love that about him, too. Look at it this way: what we’re doing right now is so fake. We live in little pressure-boxes up here, eating gruel and putting on big bulky suits just to go outside for five minutes. It’s not a real existence. It’s all artificial and manufactured, and that’s fine, but I need real things too. Brad is so much more real to me than anything else here. He’s not a tool or an experiment or a fixture… he just _is._ And there’s a lot to love about that, there’s a lot to love about _him,_ even if you can’t really see what it is at first.”

“Wow,” Jake whispers, awed. “I never thought of it that way… so where can I find a boyfriend like that? I’ll probably have to wait until I’m back on Earth.”

Patrice laughs as he remembers what Brad said last night. “I don’t think you’ll have to look that far, actually. You’ll figure things out soon enough.”

They get back to _Dacha_ and go through decon, and as Patrice is setting down his helmet he’s grabbed. Brad turns Patrice so they’re facing, then picks him up and spins him around a bunch of times. “I had such a good idea earlier!” he announces when he lets go again.

“Okay, well, hang onto it for me, I have to go get interviewed,” Patrice chuckles. He fluffs his boyfriend’s hair with his fingers, then flattens it back down again.

They walk towards the medical section holding hands, even though Brad probably just came from there. “So’d you have fun with the rookie?”

“He wants to grow fruit in the oxygen garden… we told him that’s not up to us. He’s really smart, though, I’m surprised he’s an engineer and not a researcher. And I’m pretty sure you’re right about him and Charlie, too.”

Brad grins. “I’m always right about everything ever.”

“You tried to make me a birthday cake and cooked it at the wrong temperature because you thought you remembered it and didn’t want to look at the instructions again.”

“Okay, so maybe not that one time, but otherwise I’m always right.”

“You tried to put an HDMI cable into a USB port once.”

“Pat-”

“You wanted to buy a new tv remote when it didn’t work and it turned out you just put in the batteries wrong.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Yes?”

“Tell me I’m still wrong about this…”

“What?”

“Even when you’re being mean and making a point to me about something I don’t like, you’re still so pretty that I can’t get mad about it.”

Patrice laughs and kisses the side of his head. “Okay, fine. You can be right about that.”

He goes into medical and sees Charlie with Krej, which is a little weird because he’s pretty sure Charlie is supposed to be shadowing Z right now.

“Have you had any heart problems before?” Krej is asking.

“I had to have a procedure done for arrhythmia.”

“Yes, that explains it. Sometimes the jump-gates can have effects on… Charlie?”

“My arm feels funny,” Charlie mumbles, then drops right to the floor.

“Fuck! DAVID! Code blue!” Krej yells, rolling Charlie onto his back and doing chest compressions.

Backes appears with a defibrillator in less than ten seconds, knocking over two chairs and a supply cart in his way. Patrice watches them go through their procedure in a morbid state of surprise; it was a standard part of the briefing, that sometimes jump-gate transitions have side effects besides the immediate nausea, but he still wasn’t expecting to see it firsthand. Charlie gets shocked, they jam a needle of adrenalin into his chest, then he gets shocked again and thankfully starts coughing and thrashing.

“You scared us, kiddo,” Backes grins. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.”

“Now how many?”

“Four.”

“Now how many?”

“Thumb.”

Krej and Backes both laugh. “Alright, you’re going to be fine. You have to hang out here with us until tomorrow morning, though.”

Patrice watches them take Charlie to a cot, then unglues his feet from the floor and goes in the other direction where Vadik is frantically writing down everything that just happened.

“Is it always so exciting on your team?” Dima jokes as Patrice sits down across from them.

“Not usually. I almost asphyxiated once.”

“You did? How did that happen?”

And he goes through the whole incident with them. The interview questions seem to be split evenly between how he feels about being back on Mars and about his relationship with Brad, which he doesn’t mind. He’s still somewhat distracted by what just happened with Charlie, too.

“How often does that occur?”

“It’s rare,” Vadik answers. “Generally, the person already has a heart condition. So far we haven’t lost anyone from it.”

“I think this is all we need from you today,” Dima decides after checking the clock. “I’m sure you won’t be surprised, but Brad wouldn’t shut up about you during his interview.”

Patrice smiles. “No, I’m not surprised by that at all. Don’t be scared to ask him about anything, he loves to talk.”

“Yes, we noticed… could you send Jake to us next?”

“I can try, he’s already proposing project ideas to Bruce.”

“Alright, then see if you can get Pastrnak instead.”

Patrice does just that, then finds Brad screwing around with a soccer ball by the airlock. “Hey, I’m back.”

“Hey!” Brad abandons the ball and comes over to kiss him, more intensively than Patrice was expecting. “So I was thinking - since we weigh less here and we’re still strong for a little bit before we adjust, we should try wall sex.”

“I should’ve figured that’s where this is going,” Patrice groans. “Why do you want wall sex so bad, Bradley?”

“Never done it before,” he shrugs. “Normally we’d both be too heavy to do it for more than a few minutes, but right now I only weigh like seventy pounds, so it’s perfect!”

Patrice sighs. “Alright, fine, but I was on top last time so that means it’s your turn.”

“Great,” Brad grins, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Kinky space sex!”

He pulls a strip of condoms out of the pocket of his coverall, because of course he already grabbed a bunch from the medical guys, and they head for the showers. Brad’s excitement is contagious: they just leave their clothes in a heap outside the stall and don’t even turn on the water for an obvious noise cover. (It’s not like anyone walking in right now won’t know exactly what they’re doing.) Then there’s a packet of lube and they’re too impatient, so it’s two of Brad’s fingers and Patrice can’t help the whimper he gives in response. He wouldn’t stop it anyway, because he knows Brad likes it, likes hearing him, likes knowing exactly how he feels.

Because of the almost too short amount of time getting Patrice ready, Brad apparently thinks he needs to compensate by putting an entire second packet of lube on over the condom. Then Patrice is folded against the wall with his knees in Brad’s elbows and it’s kind of uncomfortable for a second because they didn’t spend long enough getting him ready; it passes quickly enough, though, and then he’s moaning without words at Brad’s every movement. A sudden extra-hard jab into his hot-spot has Patrice cry out, dropping his face into his boyfriend’s neck. He clings to Brad’s shoulders with his arms and then Brad does it again, making him yell out a curse word in French.

Gradually the whole world falls away from his senses, so that there’s just a smooth aluminum wall on his back and then Brad holding him against it, Brad moving unevenly to draw as much noise and pleasure from him as possible, Brad kissing the corner of his jaw, Brad. Brad’s all there is. Brad makes him come without touching him once.

Patrice is carefully set down and arranged on the floor; he always ends up boneless when Brad tops, because while Brad’s only on the higher end of average size he _really_ knows what he’s doing. Only now does the water get turned on, so that Brad can finish himself and the whole mess of both of them can go down the drain. They sit in the corner under the spray, inattentively rubbing soap over each other between lazy kisses.

Patrice is debating whether he should give in to the urge to fall asleep like this, letting the shower run over his skin and cradled in Brad’s arms, when there’s a very loud and unimpressed throat-clearing from outside the stall.

“Can you two be done, please? You’re wasting a lot of water!”

“Yeah, sorry Tuuks, gimme like five more minutes,” Brad shouts back.

“No, Marchy, now!”

“Fine! Fucking buzzkill.”

Tuukka stands there and glares at them with his arms crossed the entire time they get dressed. Patrice is still trembling as he stuffs his feet into his boots and zips up his coverall, while Brad just looks smug about getting laid. At least his boyfriend is present enough to pick up the trash out of the stall and throw it away.

“We can hear you all the way in the cafeteria,” Tuukka complains as the three of them leave, heading in exactly that direction even though Patrice really wants to go to his bunk for a nap.

“That’s how I know I’m doing it right,” Brad cackles.

“You’re both insufferable.”

“What did I do?” Patrice protests.

“You’re the one who was screaming,” Tuukka points out. “It’s literally our second day here and you’re already making the rest of us want to go home.”

“We can always go fuck in the oxygen garden or something,” Brad suggests, looking at Patrice.

He shakes his head. “No, the oxygen garden is contaminated. Remember how they scrubbed you and made you wear a mask after your suit ripped? They’d make us both do that and we’d have to sit in a quarantine box for twenty four hours. That doesn’t seem worth the effort.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like, the absolute height of my ability to write porn. An internet friend on Tumblr read just that one section and liked it okay, but he constructively criticized that it could've done with a tiny bit more description... the problem with that being that the nitty gritty details of sex are where I always get stuck. On a related note, it seemed like it would be too obvious for Marchy to be the loud one during sex, so for the purposes of this fic I made it so that Bergy is usually the screamer :D
> 
> Also - I read a thing somewhere about C-Mac having a heart murmur or something and he needed a procedure done for it? So that's where that came from in this chapter.


	4. First Week of May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter a couple hours early because tomorrow looks like a shitshow for me.
> 
> There is some amount of systemic homophobia shown in this chapter, but it's nothing violent, just some annoying details. Putin is an ass.
> 
> Also - in light of many Bruins contracts being up in the air, as well as the fact that Kagarlitsky is no longer with Dynamo Moscow (he was traded in June), let it be known that trades will not affect this particular narrative. There is no reason to change the team dynamics I have going for real-life trades, especially since this is an AU.

“It’s my birthday next week, what did you guys all get me?” Brad asks over breakfast.

“An exciting guest mission,” Z answers. “You, Bergy, and Charlie are going to _Vtoroy Institut_ this afternoon and you’ll be there for six days.”

“Doesn’t Second Institute have enough guys?” Patrice wonders.

“First Institute had a fire, so Second Institute’s guys are all there until replacements can be sent. Five engineers were burned badly enough that they had to be evacuated, and Roscosmos needs time to assemble an emergency crew,” Dima informs him quietly. “One of them was a friend of mine, he was terribly injured last night.”

Brad stays quiet. He’s loud and annoying most of the time, but he still knows when to leave an issue alone.

“Dimochka, Ilya will be fine,” Vadik assures his colleague. “I read the report, none of them lost consciousness or took burns on more than thirty percent of their skin. He’ll have some scarring, but it should be fine eventually.”

“I know, but…” Dima wipes his eyes. “I can’t go see him, now. I’m here for two years and he’s so far away. I wish I can go to the hospital and visit him, but it’s impossible.”

Vadik side-hugs Dima and the room stays silent. Brad and Patrice share a look: no wonder Dima is so interested in writing papers about them. Ilya Nikulin is clearly much more important than a normal friend.

“I can send an inquiry,” Krej offers in a gentle tone. “Asking for a medical report on the wounded. We can say it’s for statistics reasons, on injuries and near-misses that have happened because Vadik can use it in his study. There may not be periodic updates about your friend, but you’ll at least know how he’s doing once he’s in Moscow.”

“Thank you, I would appreciate it a lot,” Dima nods.

The rest of breakfast is eaten in silence and once it’s over the three of them meet with Bruce.

“Will I have to do field stuff or lab stuff?” Charlie asks.

“Probably a mix of both. Bergy and Marchy will be with you the whole time.”

“But couldn’t Pasta go? I mean, he’s been here way longer than me…”

“That’s exactly why he’s not going. We can’t send all the experienced guys over and we can’t send two inexperienced guys, either. You’ll be fine, there should still be at least two other electronics techs at _Vtoroy Institut._ ”

Patrice can tell, though, that Charlie really just wants to stay where Jake is. It has nothing to do with practical training.

Apparently Brad agrees, because he’s rolling his eyes. “Chuckie, you’ll be fine. Brusky will still be here when we get back.”

Now Charlie turns tomato-colored, but he doesn’t say anything else in protest.

“Bergy, Marchy, you’ll have to actually restrain yourselves while you’re over there. Those cosmonauts probably won’t be as accepting of you as our two have been, and the last thing we need is to get in trouble with Roscosmos right now. Alright… go put your gear together, you’re going after lunch so there’s plenty of time. They’re sending an MPC to pick you up then, so none of you has to drive.”

Patrice can see how hard Brad’s trying not to look relieved at that. He’s still nervous around ATVs sometimes, riding an unprotected vehicle with only as much air as will fit on his back. An MPC is fully encapsulating and supplies air from regenerative tanks, so it’s much safer.

They leave Bruce’s work area to go get ready. Charlie is sulking the whole walk to their bunks. “What exactly do you think’s going to happen while you’re gone?” Brad asks. “Like I said, he’s not going anywhere.”

“I mean - it’s not like it’s a thing,” Charlie mumbles.

“Weren’t you two in the same training group? That means you were already in each other’s pockets for a fucking year. How did you not figure your shit out yet?”

“I don’t want to keep talking about this!” he protests. “Shouldn’t you guys go get one last bang in before we go hang out with a bunch of homophobic cosmonauts?”

Brad laughs so hard he has to stop walking and bend over.

“Charlie, just tell Jake how you feel, okay?” Patrice suggests, making sure he sounds kind and not exasperated. “It’s very likely that he’s interested in you already.” They get to their bunks and start throwing clothes into their rucksacks. He supervises Charlie: “You don’t need to bring your spare boots. What you should really bring is a book or two, and maybe your pillow.”

“But won’t they have pillows there?”

“Yeah, but if you bring yours it’ll already smell like you and you’ll have an easier time falling asleep.” To punctuate the statement, Patrice puts his own pillow into his rucksack.

“We should switch pillows,” Brad hums thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“We have to be straight-passing over there, right? So if I have your pillow, I can still get your smell, and vice versa. It’ll be easier that way since we can’t cuddle.”

“That’s actually a really good idea,” Patrice agrees, and they swap.

“You guys are sweet enough to put a diabetic into a coma,” Charlie scoffs.

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Brad grins.

“It really wasn’t.”

“If you would just ask Jake out you wouldn’t have to stand there being all jealous of our relationship,” he points out.

Patrice rolls his eyes. “Bradley, you’re supposed to let people figure things out on their own…”

“What? I’m doing him a favor!”

And then, as if life on Mars is now a sitcom, Jake timidly enters the sleeping area. “Um… hi, guys…”

Charlie looks like he could actually die of embarrassment, while Brad starts laughing. “Oh, this is too fucking perfect!” Before anyone can stop him, he grabs Jake by the wrist and shoves him into Charlie so that the two of them are chest-to-chest. “Now fucking kiss already!”

“He’s not going to let go of my arm until I do what he says, is he?” Jake asks, frantically looking over his shoulder at Patrice.

“Probably not.”

“Am I really that bad that you won’t kiss me?” Charlie demands, angry now and directing it at Jake even though it’s clearly Brad that he’s upset with.

“No, of course not! But there’s too many people watching and that makes me nervous!” Jake blurts out.

“Pretend I’m not here,” Brad grins.

“You’re literally right next to my face and it feels like you’re breaking my wrist.”

“Just fucking do it, man, don’t leave him hanging like this.”

“I hate you, Marchy,” Jake growls, then goes back to looking terrified and pecks Charlie on the side of the mouth.

“Good for you! Now, Pat and I are going to go outside for a second, and you can do it for real this time,” Brad smirks.

“You’re so terrible,” Patrice whispers once they’re out in the hall. “Why did you do that?”

“I want them to be happy, and they’re cute together,” he shrugs. “Is that really so bad?”

“You’re supposed to let them figure it out on their own, Bradley.”

“Whatever. I can’t undo it now.”

After about twenty seconds they go back in, finding Charlie and Jake sitting side-by-side on Charlie’s bunk. “Marchy, I still hate you,” Jake announces, but the words are blunted by the fact that he’s grinning like an idiot.

“Whatever, bro. Now you can look forward to cuddles once we get back.”

They finally finish gathering up their stuff and Brad shamelessly pulls Patrice onto the bunk for some last-minute snuggling. He can hear Jake and Charlie snickering at them, but he doesn’t care and wraps himself around his boyfriend like always.

“If it’s too much, we’ll go find some closet to hide in where we can hold hands or something,” he tries to joke.

“Oh, sure, a fucking closet,” Brad scoffs. “Like I haven’t spent enough time in one of those already when I was younger.”

“I didn’t mean it like that…”

“Why does Putin have to be such a dick?” Brad whines, tucking his face into Patrice’s chest. “I’ll shrivel up and die without love and attention… it’s like when you don’t water a plant.”

“It’ll be fine,” Patrice soothes, kissing the top of his head. “We’ll be back at _Dacha_ before you know it, and then we can start driving Tuukka crazy again.”

“I’m gonna make you scream when we get back.”

“You already make me scream,” he chuckles.

“Fine, then I’m gonna make you scream even louder than normal.” Brad shuffles, pressing closer. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Brad.”

“They’re so sappy,” Charlie mutters from across the room. “Promise we won’t get like that?”

“I’ll do my best, but I definitely can’t promise. Plus, if they’re going to be like that, it should be okay for us too, right?” Jake points out.

“You know we can hear you,” Patrice calls over.

“Yeah, so? We can hear all the stupid shit you’re saying,” Jake shoots back, not without humor.

“When we do it it’s charming, though,” Brad argues.

“It’s really not, Marchy. Your boyfriend might be cute, but you’re not, and you’re also way more obnoxious than him, too. Nothing you do is charming.”

“Just ignore him, you do plenty of charming things,” Patrice murmurs before Brad can start sniping at them.

“Like when I fucked up your birthday cake last year?”

“Yeah, like that. The fact that you tried to make a cake was charming, even though it didn’t turn out that well.”

All too soon, they have to get up again and go to the airlock. Their rucksacks get packed in insulated tarpaulin bags, then they start donning their suits. Brad looks slightly apprehensive and Charlie looks sad; Patrice wonders what his expression says right now, as he pulls on his gloves and tugs his air supply pack into place. Snapping his helmet closed, he thinks of Jake’s question from last week, why does he love Brad. Part of it is right here. He can always see how Brad feels, it’s impossible to miss. Even after almost two years, the shine of that hasn’t worn off for Patrice. He never has to play guessing games, he always knows how Brad is doing, and it’s easy to react accordingly.

“What’re you thinking about?” Brad wonders as they pass through the airlock.

“Huh?”

“You’re looking at me and grinning.”

There’s only about ten seconds until their comm. auto-connects with the one on the MPC and they have to be straight passing, so he goes for it. “I just love you so much, that’s all.”

“Love you too, Pat.”

“You guys are gross,” Charlie grumbles, right before the soft beep signalling the auto-connect.

 _Vtoroy Institut_ is huge, bigger than _Perviy Institut_ and way bigger than _Dacha._ Patrice already knows he’s going to get lost, probably several times, and makes a mental note not to let Charlie or Brad go anywhere without him because they’ll never find their way back again. Especially not Charlie - the kid is clearly overwhelmed and his Russian is almost as bad as Brad’s (both of them tend to substitute words in English if they don’t know or can’t remember how to say something).

“It’s unfortunate what happened yesterday,” Yevgeny Mozer is chattering as he leads them to the sleeping area in dome seven. “So we’re very grateful for your help. You’ll mainly be assigned to my project until the replacement workers get to First Institute, so your workload won’t be very full most of the time.”

“What are you working on, Zhenya?” Patrice asks.

“I’m trying to make a determination whether decon is actually necessary on return from missions. So far the results have been inconclusive… it’s a very long-term project and someone else will come to take over in two months once I return. The thing is we obviously haven’t seen evidence of harmful microorganisms in the soil here, but that’s only by Earth standards. We may simply not know what to look for.”

“At least it sounds interesting,” Charlie comments.

“It is and it isn’t. Running tests and experiments isn’t a hardship, but I can only stare at petri dishes full of dust for so long before my eyes start to hurt.”

The sleeping area is much nicer here than at _Dacha._ It’s still arranged in bunk beds, but each bunk bed is in a small section by itself with an opaque sliding door to close it off. This affords plenty of privacy to the two people sleeping in each bunk. Except for the two sections on the ends, which have a pair of bunk beds.

“So all three of us will be here?” Patrice guesses as they’re led to one of the end sections.

“Yes, and the fourth is empty. This one and the one like it are designated for visiting missions, but it’s only you three right now, so it makes sense to keep you together.”

They set down their rucksacks and immediately take out their pillows in order to claim their bunks; the extras are piled on the fourth one that won’t be used.

“So do we have stuff to do right away?” Brad wonders.

Zhenya shakes his head. “I’m going to send someone to show you around the complex, and after that you can eat dinner. There really isn’t anything going on for me until tomorrow that needs your help, I’m afraid. I told them they didn’t have to send people from _Dacha,_ because I usually get along fine as it is, but I suppose it makes sense in a way. Many of my colleagues are at _Perviy Institut_ keeping an eye on things, so we should have extra engineers in case something happens.”

“I’m an electronics technician,” Charlie corrects.

“Yes, I’m sorry… you, actually, will probably have a much more interesting time here than your colleagues. There are several machines that need diagnostics in the lab, I was told you’re good at that.”

“I haven’t been here very long, but-”

“Charles isn’t experienced yet, but he performed very well during his training with Roscosmos,” Patrice interrupts. “And I’ll be with him to supervise.”

“Wonderful. Alright, I was in the middle of documenting another in a series of useless reports, so I’ll send Andreshka over to give you the tour.”

Once Zhenya has disappeared, Patrice puts an arm around Brad’s shoulders and side-hugs him so that they can touch and not look suspicious if anyone sees them. He can’t begin to imagine how terrible things will get for Brad by the end of this guest mission; Brad’s such an affectionate, loving guy, he always goes for physical contact to the point where he starts to get anxious and depressed without it. Here, they can’t even lie down on the same bunk because one of the cosmonauts might see them and they’ll get reported for it. Thinking about this makes Patrice very selfishly wish that Pasta and Jake had been sent instead, because in a couple of days Brad will start suffering.

“You can wear one of my uniforms if you want,” he whispers in English. “It’ll be a little long for your arms and legs, but nobody will notice.”

“Okay,” Brad nods, equally quiet.

Andrey Mironov appears after a few minutes just like Zhenya said, and they’re led around through all the domes. Patrice immediately recognizes as they’re walking around that if he gets lost, he can just keep going in a circle until he finds the place he’s supposed to be, and as soon as he has that thought he shares it with his cohorts. “Neither of you is going anywhere without me, though, because somehow you’ll still get lost.”

“Yes, _mom,_ ” Charlie snorts, which gets Brad to snicker.

They walk the whole circuit, then go to dome two where the cafeteria is. It’s a true dining area, with ten different tables and a counter that you slide your tray across. All three of them are immediately delighted to find that here at Second Institute, the food is actual food, not nutrient paste and vitamin water.

“It’s because we’re so close to First Institute,” Andreshka explains as they grab trays and utensils. “With the jump gates, we can get foods that are freeze-dried or that doesn’t need special preservation in each month’s supply drop. They’re still working out how to get food to _Dacha,_ but it may happen by the end of the year. Possibly even sooner.”

Like idiots, they decide to stuff themselves. It’s a three course meal - radish salad with sour cream dressing, beef goulash, then cranberry and apple soup. (Patrice would be lying if he said he didn’t immediately like Russian food when he’d first gotten to Roscosmos after graduating college.) After less than two weeks of nutrient paste, they already feel spoiled at the idea of actual food made with actual meat and actual vegetables. Patrice wonders how all the cosmonauts working here aren’t fat.

“It’s so delicious,” Charlie comments as Zhenya joins them and immediately looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Why do you Americans eat so much?”

“Hey, I’m Canadian,” Brad answers right before shoveling the last bite of goulash into his mouth and pulling over his dessert soup.

“Actually so am I,” Patrice chuckles. “Charlie’s the only American at this table, and he’s one of just two on our whole mission at _Dacha._ ”

“Alright, so why do you Canadians eat so much?” Zhenya teases.

“Because real food doesn’t happen for us,” Patrice snorts. He sips at the double of vodka he was given with his meal (because of course everyone’s given vodka here) and finishes his salad, and unlike the other two he can at least eat like a person and not cram his face. “It’s all gruel, and all the meals are the same.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It really is,” Brad agrees. He tosses back his entire serving of vodka in one swallow and makes a face for a second after. “I think this is the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten, getting to have real food on Mars.”

“Oh, it’s your birthday?”

“Next week. I’ll be twenty seven.”

Brad gets up to see if he can have another serving of food and vodka while Charlie forces himself to drink his own alcohol and Patrice continues to eat much more politely than either of them did. He tries to remember the name of Dima’s probably-boyfriend.

“Do either of you know how Ilya Nikulin is doing?”

“His whole arm got burned… that’s what I heard, anyway,” Andreshka offers. “He got evacuated and… I think Sasha said he might have nerve damage. Why?”

“Dima Kagarlitsky is on our mission, he’s worried about his friend so since I’m here I figured I should ask for him.”

Zhenya and Andreshka share a knowing look. “Yes, it makes sense Dima would ask about that… he has a strange relationship with Ilya. They were both very upset to be assigned on different missions.”

“Maybe they just have a lot in common,” Brad suggests, sitting down a little too heavily and clunking his tray purposefully against the table.

“Marchy, should you eat that much?” Thank god Charlie is smart enough to change the subject. “You could make yourself sick.”

“But it’s so good, and I’m hungry…”

As it turns out, Charlie was right to be concerned, because half an hour later Patrice is dragging Brad to medical - he definitely overdid it on the food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about Russian food for a second:
> 
> 1\. It is fucking delicious. I've hardly met a food from a Russian cookbook that I don't like.  
> 2\. They would totally give vodka to their cosmonauts, that stereotype exists for a reason, people.  
> 3\. Food in Russia is still made out of food, unlike here in the US where everything is bland and overly processed with chemicals and shit.  
> 4\. Yes, there is such a thing as "dessert soups," the one used here being an excellent example.
> 
> Now let's talk about systemic homophobia in Russia for a second. As to whether Dima and Ilya were put on separate missions because they got found out - I honestly can't answer. That's up to you. Zhenya and Andreshka clearly know what's going on, but say nothing about it, so who can say for sure whether they got caught. In real life, this is a major problem. For a lot of countries with homophobic ideals, there will still be, generally speaking, pockets of life for the LGBTQIA+ community (usually gay clubs in large cities) where same-sex couples aren't too afraid of walking around holding hands in public. In Russia, there is no such thing, not even in Moscow. It's widely and wrongly believed that gay men are pedophiles, which could be the only reason why they would want to adopt children, and this lie makes it extremely difficult for them to go about their lives in peace. Some percentage of the population (not the majority or even a plurality) believe they should be imprisoned or executed; the vast majority, on the other hand, thinks they should be put into mental hospitals until they're "cured." I think maybe 20% or less of the population in Russia thinks that being gay isn't an issue. Similarly, the existence of transgender people is completely erased there, so much so that the Russian language doesn't even have a word for it.


	5. Second Week of May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very short, I apologize. Because it's so short I'll post the next chapter as well to make up for it, because that one is super long. In addition this one is going up a few hours early.

“That was hell!” Brad shouts as he finishes shucking his pressure suit and immediately starts hanging off Patrice’s side. “I’m never doing that again! Ever! Jake and Pasta can go next time!”

“Marchy…” Bruce starts, but immediately stops because he probably realizes there’s no point in finishing that line of thought.

“You’re okay, Brad,” Patrice insists, pulling him in close. “At least we didn’t get caught.”

Vadik, of course, is standing there taking notes while they stow their suits and complain about various things from their guest mission. Charlie is mostly excited to see Jake again, while Brad continues to gripe loudly about “not being allowed to touch my fucking boyfriend” and “now I remember what food tastes like again so this shit will suck even more.”

“Charlie, Krej has asked me to remind you that you have a check-up on your heart now that you’re back.” Vadik looks at Brad. “Also, we would like to speak to you both once you’re unpacked, if it’s alright?”

“I think that should wait until tomorrow,” Patrice decides before his boyfriend can answer. “He’s pretty burned out right now.”

“Tomorrow is fine, yes. Go have a nap or something.”

Patrice drags both their rucksacks in one hand and Brad with the other to the sleeping area. It’s less private, but he’s glad for it anyway, because this is a place where they can be themselves and not pretend. It’s been awhile since Patrice has had to fake being straight, so the last six days were beyond uncomfortable.

“Shit, I forgot, I actually do have to go to medical real quick,” Patrice groans. Brad’s arms squeeze a little tighter around him and he smiles. “Yes, you can come, too, and then we’ll snuggle.”

“It can’t wait until later?”

“No, because I don’t want to forget. Neither of us is going anywhere, Bradley, a few minutes won’t make that much of a difference.”

“I just really miss getting to hold you when you’re sleeping.”

“I know, it’s okay. You’ll get to do that soon.”

He placates Brad with a kiss and they go to medical. Dima is typing something on his laptop and looks surprised to see them: “Vadik said you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”

“We are, I just wanted to let you know what I heard while we were at _Vtoroy Institut,_ ” Patrice explains, then relays everything Zhenya and Andreshka said about Ilya Nikulin. “I thought you’d like to hear what’s going on.”

Dima nods and smiles sadly up at Patrice from his desk. “At least now I know. Thank you, Bergy.”

“If it was Brad, I’d want to know.” He pauses. “Dima, not to be… invasive, but Ilya’s more than your friend, isn’t he?”

“Yes. I went on my first mission with him… he loves me very much. I wish they didn’t separate us last year. I only said ‘friend’ because it’s usually the only acceptable thing for us, it’s a habit.”

“It’s okay. None of us would ever tell Roscosmos on you.”

“Yes, I know. It’s alright. You can both go enjoy your nap, now. If you choose not to nap quite yet, you of course know where the stockpile is,” Dima smiles.

“Pat…?”

“Absolutely not. I’m exhausted.”

They bicker lightly about this the whole walk back to their bunks, but it’s instantly forgotten when they get to lay down together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for this chapter being short, the next one is super long and has a floor hockey tournament and more sex :D


	6. Last Week of June

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra-long chapter with lots of floor hockey and then some porn at the end :)

“I’m just shocked it took this long,” Patrice comments as the three of them climb onto the ATV. “Alright… so first, normally only two engineers go for this job, but obviously it’s different because this is your first one. Usually you’ll go with me, because I’m the appointed driver. This is a pretty simple one, too, but you always have at least one other guy with you if you’re leaving the complex for more than ten minutes. If you go out by yourself and something goes wrong, there’s nobody to help you, and you could die.”

“That happened to me once,” Brad puts in.

“What, you went out by yourself and something happened?” Jake questions.

“No, I died.”

“Bradley, time and place,” Patrice interrupts. “We’re supposed to be teaching him.”

“I am teaching him! Right now he’s learning to never trust a single thing I say,” Brad grins.

“Don’t worry, I figured that one out long before now,” Jake remarks.

“Come on, enough. So, getting back to the point, this will require exactly one tool. Do you know what it is?”

“Uh… no.”

“A flat-blade screwdriver. The wires plug and unplug very easily, even with gloves on, so we just unscrew the nuts holding the broken camera down, unplug it, plug in the new one and then screw it into place. It’ll take less than five minutes.”

“Which is great, until you realize it’s a half hour fucking drive just to get to the damn rover,” Brad complains.

They talk about stupid things for that half hour drive, like a floor hockey tournament that Krej is setting up for tomorrow and Tuukka losing his mind over a missing box of paper clips only to find them later in the “wrong” desk drawer.

“What was so special about those paper clips?” Patrice wonders.

“They were the little colored stripey ones that look kind of like candy canes,” Brad explains. “He really likes that kind. This is totally not related, but I keep fantasizing about you fucking me over his desk just to make him flip his shit.”

“I’m still not an exhibitionist, Bradley. I don’t care if people know we’re having sex, but that doesn’t mean I feel like being watched.”

“No, like, he wouldn’t actually be there, we’d just leave the condom wrapper out somewhere he could see it.”

“Oh my god! You’re both awful and I don’t want to listen to this!” Jake howls.

“You have no room to talk, Brusky,” Brad snickers. “I know you let Chuckie bone you down by the airlock two days ago. You think you’re being quiet but you’re _really_ not.”

“Yeah, okay, first of all I was the one doing the boning. Second, at least we try to keep the noise to ourselves and we’re way less annoying about it than you are, Marchy.”

“Hey, if I’m going to do something I’m going to do it right. Back me up on this, Pat.”

“No, I’m not joining your dick-measuring contest.”

“He’d just win if he did anyway,” Brad cackles, completely missing the point (probably on purpose).

“Bradley Kevin Marchand, if you keep talking about my dick to people you’ll never get to see it again.”

“You’re no fun, Pat.”

Jake sighs in relief. “Thank you, Bergy. You’re significantly less awful than your boyfriend.”

“He’s not awful, he’s just hyper.”

It takes exactly four minutes to fix the rover once they find it, and while Jake works on that Patrice looks at the air volume gauge on his boyfriend’s suit. It’s a common misconception that the pressure suits they wear on Mars are the same as the chunky white EVA suits used in microgravity; these are still bulky, but not as much, and have air cylinders instead of oxygen tanks for safety reasons. So, an astronaut in a Mars pressure suit can breathe for three or maybe four hours before needing a refill.

“You’re good,” he informs Brad.

“Thanks.”

“Marchy, why are you so weird about your suit all the time?” Jake wonders, putting the screwdriver back and climbing on again.

“Pat almost died in one once because I did something stupid. I don’t want to talk about it any more than that.”

“For the last time, Brad, I chose to give you the spare oxygen.”

“Yeah, well, I still really wish we just shared it instead.”

“I’m not having this argument with you again. I did it and I’ll do it again if I have to. That’s all there is to it.”

Brad groans. “I thought I’m supposed to be the dumb one in this relationship.”

They do end up having the argument again, because they always have this argument. Patrice thinks that probably every couple has that one thing that they’ll bicker over until the world ends, and his unending feud with Brad is the oxygen tank. He wonders for a second what Jake and Charlie’s will end up being, and also admits in the privacy of his own thoughts that Brad was right, because those two really are cute together.

Getting back, it’s almost dinner so nobody’s working anyway, but tomorrow is an off-day so they’re especially not working. Mostly everyone’s interested in Krej’s floor hockey tournament, which is being hashed out at the table in the cafeteria.

“So, we already know Bergy and Marchy are a team,” Backes hums, tapping the end of his pen against the notepad. “Then Chuckie and Brusky… Bruce is reffing for us and Tuuks is neutral in goal… so then me and you, and Dima with Vadik. So we’ll go against Team Marcheron and Team Prefix can play Team Russia, then whoever wins their match will play against the other winner. Like the Stanley Cup, but not as gruelling to sit through. Poor Tuuks is going to be beat by the end of the day, though.”

“Sounds good to me,” Marchy chimes in, settling across from Krej. “Or we can just skip right to the end with me and Pat playing against the cosmonauts.”

“You know if you get too cocky it’ll jinx you,” Charlie insists. “And how do you know Team Sharps Precautions won’t win?”

“Because Backy is old and slow,” Brad grins. “Hey, what about Pasta and Z? You forgot them.”

“Z’s got a bunch of paperwork to catch up on and Pasta has to run the mainframe diagnostic tomorrow. We’re going to film all three games on Tuuks’ iPad, though, so they can watch later.”

“You know there’s probably a way we could set up an internal stream,” Charlie offers. “You know, over the computer network. So then Z and Pasta can watch us play while they’re working.”

Backes grins. “I love this kid! Good thing when you tried to quit your second day we were able to shock you back, huh?”

All ten of them who will participate put their brains together to hash out details over dinner. Tuukka has a goalie stick but nobody has pads, and by himself he’s not chunky enough to block even a small goal effectively, so he’ll wear his pressure suit (sans helmet and air supply pack). There’s no lines and only one goal, so things like offside will be ignored and faceoff dots will be marked with duct tape. Since there are no mouthguards, any stick going above the mid-chest will be called as a penalty. Everyone will be playing in socks so that their boots won’t mark up the floor, and also to avoid bruising each other’s shins too badly.

“So just to be clear, we’re actually going with these as team names?” Jake laughs as he reads the lists.

“Well, Backy and I were going to go with Team Heart Monitor, but Team Sharps Precautions sounds so much cooler,” Krej grins back.

“I like ours better,” Brad argues. “‘Marcheron.’ It sounds nice.”

“Yours is boring, it’s just your names put together,” Charlie scoffs.

“Whatever, you’re a prefix.”

Once the arguing stops, they all cram into the tiny rec area to watch a movie they’ve already seen three times even though half of them have to stand because there aren’t enough chairs. Vadik writes notes on everyone as always while Patrice lays on the floor so that Brad can sprawl across him and relax. It works a little too well - Brad actually falls asleep like that and starts snoring, which means four different people lightly kicking him to wake him up again.

The next morning, Pasta helps Charlie set up the iPad feed before leaving to go do the mainframe diagnostic. Tuukka pulls on his pressure suit over his underwear, because he’s going to get too hot so he might as well not wear a coverall. They don’t have any coins, so the cap for a bottle of vitamin water is flipped to determine which game will happen first; it ends up being Team Prefix vs Team Russia.

“So, how do you guys feel about sitting and taking notes during the other two games?” Jake chirps as Bruce pulls one of the punctured tennis balls out of its can.

“So overconfident,” Vadik grins. “How about this, if we win, then you have to read all my notes, starting with the very first page from the day we launched.”

“No deal, I already know how boring your notes are.”

Bruce drops the imitation puck and the scuffle begins. Dima shoves Charlie off the puck and takes a shot at Tuukka, who whacks it away much quicker than anyone should be able to when wearing one of those suits. Patrice kicks it back into play before it can roll all the way down the hall and then Vadik takes a shot, which goes past Tuukka’s left ear and into the supply box they’re using as a goal.

“One-nothing!” Backes calls out, updating the scoreboard that they drew on the wall with a whiteboard marker.

It was already determined last night that the game periods would only be ten minutes with fifteen minute intermissions, but the first period is more than enough for everyone to already know how this game will end. Vadik and Dima are practically running laps around Jake and Charlie, and the only reason the score doesn’t end up thirty to nothing is because Tuukka is just way too good at this.

“First intermission,” Krej announces to the iPad’s camera lens before passing over bottles of vitamin water to the five participants.

“After this, we should just keep having games,” Brad suggests. “Like with a schedule and everything. It’ll be way more fun than watching the same movies over and over. Maybe we can get Pasta and Z in on it, too, they can be their own team.”

“That’s… not a bad idea,” Backes agrees. “It’ll probably be really good for morale.”

“It will definitely be good for morale,” Dima agrees. “Exercise is important for mental health and sports promote camaraderie, and besides those things a hockey game doesn’t have a predetermined ending like movies and television. So, Marchy has a very good point, and psychologically speaking I fully support this idea.”

“Holy shit, Marchy said something smart?” Charlie gasps.

“Statistically it was bound to happen eventually,” Tuukka snorts, mopping his forehead with one of the hand towels that normally lives in his lab.

Patrice takes pictures on someone’s iPad while his friends are resting up for the next “period,” and in the background he can hear his boyfriend chirping Backes and Krej. It reminds him of playing while he was in school, the friendly trash-talk and smell of sweat. Even without pads or a real arena, he kind of enjoys this more too, since there’s no pressure and it’s all just for fun.

Vadik and Dima ultimately win 5-1, and afterwards they both hug their “opponents” and thank them, very genuinely, for a well-played game. And it’s true, too. Jake and Charlie weren’t bad by any means, they simply weren’t as good as the two cosmonauts.

“We both played in school,” Vadik explains as he gives Jake one last pat on the back.

“Hey, so did we!” Brad grins as he does a quick stretch on the floor. “Remember what I said earlier? We should’ve just skipped to the end with me and Pat versus those two.” Then he moves to get up a little too fast, yelps, and collapses onto his face.

“Marchy?” Jake asks, concerned.

“I’m okay!” he insists, looking slightly embarrassed for once. “Yeah, that wasn’t smart…”

“What, the stretching?”

“No, getting plowed the night before I have to play hockey…”

“You didn’t learn that when you were in college?” Patrice questions, gently pulling his boyfriend up from the floor.

“Yeah, I did, but I kind of forgot that I learned it,” Brad grumbles.

They go to the imitation faceoff dot to wait for the imitation puck to be dropped. _Morning Star line of hockey products, tastes like real hockey puck,_ Patrice thinks in a rare moment of sarcasm. He makes a note to share that joke with his boyfriend later.

Bruce drops the puck and Patrice snaps is backwards to Brad, who takes off towards the left and makes like he’s going to shoot but then passes back when Krej chases him; Patrice is the one who shoots instead, and it hits Tuukka in the face. Naturally, play is stopped.

“Are you good, Tuuks?” Brad grins, clearly trying not to laugh as their goalie rubs his nose.

“Yeah, give me a second or two…”

Patrice is really glad right now that they’re not even using those plastic floor hockey pucks made for school gym classes, because one of those probably would’ve hurt more. As it stands, Tuukka is just a little annoyed, there’s no pain or bruising.

Play resumes about a minute later, with Patrice winning the puck a second time and sending it directly to Brad. This time, though, Brad just shoots instead of teasing around with it, and it hits the corner of the goal and goes in. They grab onto each other and jump up and down shouting while Jake changes the score on the wall and announces to the iPad camera that there was a Team Marcheron goal.

Ultimately, their game isn’t nearly as much of a slaughter as the first one was, ending 4-3 with Brad and Patrice as the winners just like Brad predicted. Brad, being Brad, hugs Backes and Krej both while thanking them for not making it too easy. There’s a two-hour break after that so that everyone can rest up and eat lunch before the final showdown.

“You guys played in school, right?” Charlie asks as they’re all groaning about the mineral paste once again. “Did you both play on the same line?”

Patrice can’t help smiling while his boyfriend outright laughs. “No, we never met until our first mission to come here. We were in different colleges and I didn’t even know him in Roscosmos.”

“Why, you see something you like, Chuckie?”

“Yeah, you guys looked magical,” Charlie blurts out. “It was almost like dancing or something!”

Brad just laughs even harder while Patrice thanks him and goes back to his awful food. Waiting for the final game after lunch, they end up snuggling on Patrice’s bunk like always.

“You should’ve played for the NHL,” Brad murmurs from where he’s sprawled across Patrice’s chest. “You’re so good.”

“So are you,” he answers, fluffing his boyfriend’s hair a little. “Who knows, in some other life maybe we’d both be Bruins by now.”

Brad chuckles. “That would be amazing. It’s okay, though. I love my job.” He rubs his face on Patrice’s sternum for a second, probably to scratch some kind of itch. “If we win we should have sex again.”

“How did I know you were going to ask that.”

“What? It’s not like we’ll have anything better to do. Actually we should do it either way. If we lose you can punish me by making me even more sore.”

Patrice very quickly has to think of something bland to stop himself from getting a hard-on, because that would only encourage Brad’s antics. “Bradley Kevin.”

“Yeah?”

“You need to stop that, right now.”

Brad snickers. “I know it’s technically my turn to top but I kind of want to lose just so that you’ll nail me to the bunk-”

“Knock it off,” Patrice demands, squirming. “How about this, if you stop driving me insane right this second, I promise I’ll nail you either way, does that work?”

Brad raises his head to give a huge grin of triumph, and Patrice groans, realizing he just did exactly what Brad wanted.

“Deal,” Brad nods, leaning up to kiss him. “Hey, we’ve still got like forty five minutes, you want me to blow you to take the pressure off? Then you won’t just be thinking about boning me the entire time we’re playing.”

Patrice considers - it’s not the worst idea ever. “Sure, but make it quick, someone might come in and see us.”

The reality of the situation is that Brad is very thorough and attentive when it comes to sex, so whether it’s a whole drawn-out hour of lovemaking or a seven minute blow job, it’s impossible for Patrice not to feel amazing afterwards. They both go to the imitation hockey arena grinning like idiots.

“See, I told you it was a good idea to go to the showers instead,” Charlie whispers to Jake when Brad and Patrice pass by.

Krej checks that the faceoff dots are still stuck to the floor and re-draws the scoreboard on the wall while Tuukka gets back into his pressure suit and Bruce makes sure the goal is positioned correctly. Vadik and Dima are mumbling things to each other and Vadik makes tiny movements with his stick, obviously planning something. Backes makes Charlie check the iPad to be sure that the internal stream is still working (it is). Brad does a different stretch on the floor this time, one that won’t give him a twinge, and Patrice joins him for it.

The thing about floor hockey in a tiny research station on Mars is that, while the airlock hallway is wide to accommodate supply deliveries, it’s still really not big enough to have good elbow room for sports. Which is how Vadik gets a penalty three minutes in for knocking Brad into a wall.

“Shit, are you alright, Marchy?”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay.” Brad accepts the hand offered and gets pulled up.

“Shipachyov, two minutes, boarding,” Bruce announces to the iPad.

A timer is set on Krej’s wristwatch and play resumes. With just Dima there, it’s all of ten seconds before Patrice scores and Vadik is allowed back into the game. Accidental penalties aside, though, they seem to be mostly evenly matched; a different skill set for both pairs, sure, but none of them are having an easy time getting around each other. Tuukka’s job is much easier in this game than it was for the two earlier, and Patrice almost feels as if he’s playing a real hockey match like he’s in college again. From the non-goal end of the hall, Charlie and Jake cheer on Brad and Patrice while Krej and Backes are rooting for Vadik and Dima.

At the end of the period, Patrice ends up blocking a shot from Vadik only for it to end up on Dima’s stick and the game is suddenly tied 1-1. The intermission comes less than fifty seconds later, though, which means he can wipe off all the sweat and reset.

“So you guys are a lot harder to beat than Team Sharps Precautions,” Brad comments through his panting breaths before he cracks a bottle of vitamin water.

“You’re both quite good at this, too,” Dima answers. “It’s very interesting for us, Canada plays hockey different from how Russia plays hockey.”

Patrice’s brain is confused by this conversation for a second until he realizes that Brad’s speaking English but Dima’s answering in Russian. It makes sense, though, because while Brad’s Russian has started to improve a little over the last couple of months, it’s still pretty bad. He can’t shake the habit of using the wrong “r” sound in words and he can’t even count all the way to one hundred.

The other thing that makes it weird is that this is being taken so seriously and yet not seriously at all, both at once. Because both pairs of players really do want to win, but they’re still friends and colleagues. Vadik “boarded” Brad but immediately asked him if he was okay and pulled him back to his feet, Dima worked really hard to even up the score against them but is now chatting them up completely casually about different playing styles by region. It’s a beautiful contradiction and Patrice doesn’t know if he could ever find it anywhere else but here.

Once play resumes, they struggle for two periods but can’t undo the deadlock against each other (in no small part due to Tuukka stopping them), and once the third ends and it’s still 1-1 all five players look at Bruce in confusion.

“Overtime,” Bruce decides, in a tone like he’s not sure what they want him to do about it exactly.

“But how long is overtime?” Vadik pants, reaching for a towel.

“Same as a period,” Krej interjects. He’s the one who set this whole thing up, after all. “Like in the playoffs.”

Ultimately, it doesn’t make an ounce of difference, because Vadik gets a lucky shot forty seconds in and wins it. The four of them tap their sticks together and share hugs, then thank Tuukka for putting up with them and start putting everything away. Patrice can tell Brad’s a little disappointed they couldn’t win, but it’s alright because apparently floor hockey games will be a regular thing soon anyway and they’ll have other chances. Besides, Brad forgets about that really quickly as they’re grabbing clean uniforms so they can go to the showers.

“Alright, we’ve been kind of torturing everyone for the last week and a half, so we’re going to at least wait until Vadik and Dima are gone,” Patrice insists as they stand out in the hall and listen to the water running inside.

“Bossy,” Brad grumbles, but he can’t pretend to be annoyed for very long when he’s immediately leaning up for a kiss.

It ends up getting more involved than intended, with Patrice putting his hands on either side of Brad’s face and very quickly fighting the impulse to just get started right here in the hallway. Brad always has this effect on him, stupid urges to do stupid things but somehow it almost seems like a good idea until he gets a grip on himself.

Dima leaves first, giving them a good-natured eye roll on his way by. Then goes Vadik, who just laughs. Neither of them, thankfully, opt to say anything.

It seems like Patrice has barely had enough time to blink between their team mates leaving the showers and him manhandling Brad into a stall, both of them yanking each other’s clothes off and almost tripping several times in the process. Their teeth bang together by accident at one point, which really hurts for a few seconds, but it’s forgotten as a packet of lube is torn open too quickly and explodes most of its contents onto the floor.

“Shit,” Brad gripes, tossing the empty packet into a corner.

“It’s okay, I have another one,” Patrice informs him, scrambling back out to grab it from his coverall.

Because the floor is now slippery, Patrice determines it’ll be a lot safer to do this if they’re not trying to stand. This ends up with Brad on his elbows and knees while Patrice sits behind him and much more carefully tears the second packet. He likes doing this, fingering his boyfriend, watching Brad twitch and make quiet wordless noises and otherwise respond in small ways.

“Say when,” Patrice murmurs after a few minutes.

“When,” Brad answers immediately, anticipation thick in his voice.

Patrice rolls on the condom and gradually slips in, listening to Brad whine quietly - he’s obviously still a little sore from last night when they did this, but doesn’t care and wants it anyway. Patrice rubs his back lightly with a palm to help him relax more. He holds still for a moment before pulling back almost all the way, then slams in again as hard as he can. Brad positively howls.

“God, do that again,” he gasps.

Patrice chuckles and complies, reaching down and starting to stroke his boyfriend while he does. It never takes long like this to dissolve Brad into a whimpering, shaking mess, and today is no exception. He thinks it takes about six minutes before his boyfriend tenses up, moans, and comes over his hand. Those noises and feelings always really do something for Patrice, which means it’s all of fifteen seconds before he’s following suit and they collapse into a sticky heap on the floor, still sandwiched. He never wants to get up again, only moving enough to take the condom off and stick it in the corner with the rest of the trash so he can relax immediately after.

Then there’s someone banging on the door and Patrice startles awake - they forgot the actual shower part of their shower, fell asleep in a pile, and now someone’s about to hassle them for it.

“Uh, are you guys still alive in there?” comes Charlie’s worried voice. “I was just here like forty minutes ago and your stuff is still all over the place out here, so…”

Patrice sits up on his knees and stretches while Brad starts grumbling swear words and doesn’t move at all. “Yeah, Charlie, we’re fine,” he groans, trying to loosen up his back and shoulders after lying like that for however long.

He waits until Charlie leaves again before turning on the water and going for the soap, sitting Brad up against the wall and applying the sudsy blue gel himself because Brad’s clearly not actually awake yet.

“That was so good,” Brad mumbles, grinning sleepily without opening his eyes as Patrice gently scrubs him clean.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah… fucked me right into a coma…”

“You’re welcome,” Patrice laughs, now smearing soap across the floor to hopefully displace the spilled lube and make it safe to stand up again. He tests it after a few seconds - it seems fine, so he gets up and sticks his face right into the stream. With Brad crammed in here as well there’s no room to move around as he lathers himself, but he doesn’t mind. He likes having his boyfriend nearby like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got a little bolder with this one... maybe someday it'll be easier for me to write porn in fic. That day is not today.
> 
> ADDENDUM. This chapter was written before I did [the Marcheron porn fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19418917). That porn is significantly higher-quality than this porn if you'd like to take a look.


	7. First Week of July

“So Dima… ready for me to ruin your entire day?” Krej asks grimly as everyone’s sitting down for breakfast.

“How could you possibly ruin my day before it’s even started yet?” Dima questions brightly.

Krej slowly sits down and opens a blue plastic folder. “This is a set of medical reports on the five cosmonauts who were injured in the fire in May… it took awhile for them to get sent to me because I’m not a priority for this info, but they did send it in yesterday’s supply drop. Apparently Ilya Nikulin suffered third degree burns to his right hand and forearm and second degree burns to his left hand. The nerve damage was severe enough that he’s lost some of his fine motor control… Roscosmos determined that he’s too badly hurt to continue being a cosmonaut.” Krej closes the folder and passes it across the table. “I’m sorry, Dima.”

Patrice wonders, for a second, why Krej has elected to be cruel about this and not share such awful news in private. After that second, though, it makes sense, because everyone - even Tuukka - goes over to take turns giving Dima hugs. They’re friends, they’re colleagues, they’re a team… they’re a family. This way Dima knows he won’t be left to suffer alone.

Remarkably, Dima doesn’t cry. (It’s surprising, because Patrice knows that if it was Brad, he’d definitely be crying about it right now.) He just accepts the hugs from everyone and goes back to his breakfast in silence. Vadik, for once, isn’t writing notes; he just puts his hand on Dima’s forearm and murmurs something that’s probably meant to be comforting.

Everyone else is quiet after that, too. Even Brad seems to be biting his tongue, for once not complaining about the awful food like he normally does during breakfast. They all just choke down their mineral paste and mumble to each other occasionally about what jobs they’re taking on today.

Pasta stops Brad and Patrice in the hall: “Guys, I need to inspect the oxygen garden, can you help me out with it? There might be a minor leak, one of the sensors is doing something weird.”

“Sure, just go let Bruce and Z know and we’ll meet you at the airlock,” Patrice agrees.

As often happens, Patrice checks every part of Brad’s suit while he puts it on, making sure it’s all functional so that he won’t be anxious about it while they’re outside the complex. There’s something really terrible about the fact that Brad, an experienced astronaut and competent field tech, is scared of wearing a space suit… but if asked, Patrice doesn’t think he’d be able to explain it to anyone. So he just goes through the motions, snapping the joints closed and fastening the velcro and clicking the air line into place. The final part of the ritual: Patrice kisses Brad before pulling up his thermal hood for him and handing over his helmet.

The three of them go out, climbing onto the ATV like always with Patrice driving and Pasta sitting on the back by the spare oxygen tank. For most of the trip, Pasta complains over the comm. about “the damn sensors are always fucking up” and “shitty Russian construction quality”, among other things. Eventually Brad starts chirping him and they bicker the rest of the way; Patrice tunes it out, just focusing on driving to the outbuilding.

“Seriously, though, the shelves are such shit,” Pasta gripes for the fiftieth time as they gather up the tools. “Hey, careful of that one, Marchy, it’s loose.”

“What, you think it’s going to jump out and bite you or something?” Brad teases as he grabs a box from it.

Less than a second passes between the end of his sentence and the entire shelving unit collapsing on him.

Patrice drops everything he’s holding and bolts across the space, throwing pieces of things in all directions as he tries to unbury his boyfriend. Brad’s moving and doesn’t seem to be injured, but then Patrice yanks something off him and suddenly he’s screaming.

“Marchy what is it?” Pasta demands, also coming over to help.

“IT’S RIPPED! IT’S RIPPED! THE TAPE, GET THE FUCKING DUCT TAPE!” Brad wails.

Patrice wants him to be overreacting, but immediately sees the gash torn through the shoulder of Brad’s suit. He slaps both palms down on it, hopefully slowing down the air leak at least a little bit until Pasta comes back with a roll of bright red adhesive tape and starts plastering Brad’s shoulder with it. This tear is a lot bigger than the first one was, so it’s extremely bad but completely unsurprising when Brad’s alarm buzzer goes off while Patrice is helping him back up.

“What does it say?!” Brad howls, twisting his head around inside his helmet like he’s trying to look at his own back where the gauge is.

“Two percent,” Patrice answers, grabbing the emergency line out of his cargo pocket and hooking up his air supply to his boyfriend’s suit. “It’s okay, I’ve got it covered-”

“No, Pat, we’re not doing that shit again!” Brad shouts. “Just… fuck, let’s go to the oxygen garden, it’s closer…”

They end up doing exactly that, and Patrice plugs Brad into the wall. “Alright… we probably have enough to get him back if we both shared with him, but he won’t go for that. So you’ll have to go back, get one of the medical guys, and… I don’t know. Something.”

Technically this isn’t a private conversation, but Brad’s sitting under the air socket he’s tethered to sobbing uncontrollably so Patrice is pretty sure he’s not listening to them.

“But I can’t drive all the way back by myself, it’s against protocol!”

“I’m not leaving him here alone when he’s like this,” Patrice snaps. “Did you not notice how he’s having a complete mental breakdown? He won’t go and I won’t leave him, so you really just have to do this. Look. I’ll take the rap from Bruce about it when we’re all back and safe, okay? Just go back to _Dacha_ and get Krej or Dima, or maybe Vadik if neither of them can come.”

Pasta hesitates, but nods after a moment. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bergy.”

“It’ll be fine. Just - please go, he shouldn’t stay stuck in his suit any longer than he has to right now.” He goes and plugs into the wall as well, then sits beside his boyfriend. “Brad… hey, look at me…” He puts his hands on either side of the helmet and lightly drums his fingertips to gain Brad’s attention. “Look at me, it’s okay, Pasta’s going to get help. They’ll be here in a few minutes and we’ll get you back to _Dacha_ so you can decon and have a nap, okay? It’s going to be okay.”

Brad grabs onto him and clings like one of them will float away if he doesn’t. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Pat, I got scared…!”

“Shhh, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay.” Patrice hugs him back and hopes he can feel it through the suit. “Are you cold?”

“A little,” Brad whimpers, nodding under his helmet. “The insulation ripped this time, too… it feels wet. I think I’m bleeding.”

“How bad?”

“Just a little bit. My sleeve’s wet, but it’s not like, pouring into my glove or anything… fuck, it’s going to get infected or something, isn’t it? I’ll have some alien Martian disease and never get to go back home with you, they’ll keep me here forever as a test subject…”

There’s so much fear in his voice and on his face that it almost breaks Patrice right then and there. Somehow, he manages to keep it together, because if he loses it that’ll just make things worse for Brad.

“No, that’s not going to happen. And if it does, then I’ll come back here to the oxygen garden and swallow a bunch of dirt. Then they’ll have to keep both of us here forever.”

It takes a long time - too long - for help to arrive. Krej and Dima both come into the oxygen garden carrying a stretcher, which is a really good thing. The oxygen garden isn’t heated beyond whatever the plants need to survive, so over the last hour or so with his suit’s insulation torn open and holding still for so long Brad’s starting to get hypothermic. His face is pale and his mouth is turning blue, he’s shivering hard enough for it to come across through his pressure suit. They need to get him back to the complex.

“Marchy, hi, we came to get you,” Krej offers as he pulls the depleted air supply pack from Brad’s shoulders and loads him onto the stretcher with help from Patrice. “How awake are you right now?”

“Ughn,” Brad moans, wracked by the shivering. “Krej… uh… my fingers hurt really bad…”

“Yeah, okay… tell me what two plus three is?”

“Three…”

“Dammit, he’s in trouble… Bergy, grab his pack. Dima, on three, one-two- _three._ ”

Brad’s lifted off the ground on the stretcher and the four of them load into an MPC waiting outside. Dima starts driving while Patrice plugs everyone into the regenerative air supply, then he sits and watches helplessly as Krej does his best to keep Brad talking and awake while Brad lies there trembling.

“He said he might’ve been bleeding earlier,” Patrice offers quietly as he watches his boyfriend struggle to stay conscious.

“Okay… we’ll have to put him in a five-day quarantine instead of a one-day, then. That’s mostly just a precaution, though. As long as it’s not too deep or a puncture wound he probably won’t get an infection.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Imagine if a wound is like a staircase, and the blood is a thousand people all running down it to escape from a fire. Then you have one or maybe two microns trying to go _up_ the staircase… how do you think that goes? We’re going to put him on antibiotics just in case, but it may not even be necessary.”

“So he’ll be okay?”

“Most likely. We need to get him warm again before we worry about anything else, when the air got out of his suit it took all his body heat with it.” Krej taps the clear part of the helmet over Brad’s face. “Marchy, stay with us here, open your eyes for me… good. Say the alphabet without singing it.”

“A… uh, B… C… F… uh… F…”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Uh… four…”

It’s actually three, but Krej doesn’t tell him that. “Dima, drive faster, he’s really slipping. Bergy, come over here, help me keep him talking, he might respond better to you.”

Patrice kneels by the stretcher and puts his hands on Brad’s shoulders. “Brad, wake up.”

“Pat…” It looks like it takes him several tries to open his eyes and look. “…you’re so pretty…”

“I know, you tell me that a lot.” Patrice forces a smile. “Why do you say it so much, Bradley?”

“’Cause you are… you… just love you so much… I tell you that yet?”

“Yeah, all the time, I love you, too. Hey, when _Vtoroy Institut_ starts shipping us real food, what do you hope we’ll get?”

“Don’t know… somethin’warm…” Brad’s starting to slur his words, now. That can’t be a good sign, and a shared look with Krej confirms that, no, it really isn’t. “’M cold, Pat… hurts…”

“I know, I know it does, but you really need to stay awake for me, okay? It’s really important.” He looks at Krej again. “Can’t you do something?”

“Not until the suit can come off. The adrenalin crash exhausted him and now that he’s been cold for so long there’s no way I could get him to stand up and move around, which is the only way he’d warm up without some kind of heat source.”

By the time they reach _Dacha,_ Brad’s stopped responding with words and only moans quietly when they talk to him; he’s not shivering anymore and his eyes won’t stay open at all, which Krej says are both really bad things. They decon, then pull Brad out of his suit and undress him down to his boxers so he can be deconed a second time. On the other side of the airlock, Backes is waiting with a gurney, an IV, a towel, and a mylar blanket. Patrice watches them rub his boyfriend dry after the decon spray and then wrap him up in the crinkly, shiny blanket so that only his head and his right hand are sticking out.

“He’s hypothermic with decreased respiratory effort,” Krej reports as they all head for medical and Backes somehow manages to insert the IV on the fly. “Possible exposure to extraterrestrial microns, we’ll hang amoxicillin and doxycycline times five days in quarantine. Shallow laceration to the right shoulder, minor bleeding, no signs of foreign objects lodged in the tissue.”

“Hypoxia?”

“No signs, they were able to tape him up in time and share air long enough to get to the oxygen garden.”

Brad’s put into the plastic quarantine box and both doctors don procedure masks before entering themselves. Patrice watches them inject all kinds of things into him, then take a temperature by swiping something across his forehead. A second mylar blanket is draped over him before they start disinfecting his shoulder wound; Krej puts a sheet over the cot while Backes begins suturing. Brad gets moved off the gurney and onto the cot, and once he starts moving around they put a surgical mask onto him, too. He’s dressed in disposable paper scrubs and wrapped back up in mylar with chemical warmers for his hands and feet, then Backes gives him one last injection before they both leave him in there by himself. Brad falls asleep almost immediately.

“So what’s going to happen?” Patrice asks, watching them throw away a small pile of medical supply wrappers and then start disinfecting the gurney.

“He’s already warmer than he was when we brought him in, so we’ll keep an eye on him for the next couple of hours to make sure he doesn’t have frostbite. Once the lorazepam wears off he’ll wake up and we’ll have Dima talk to him, Pasta said he was scared out of his mind.”

“Yeah, he was… you’re not going to evacuate him, are you?”

“Not unless we don’t have a choice,” Backes answers kindly. “On the last mission, if this happened, we probably would’ve been forced to… but we have Dima here this time, he can probably help Brad a lot and make it so he won’t have to be sent home. We’ll jump through all kinds of hoops to keep Brad here with us, don’t worry.”

Patrice nods, then looks past Backes and through the plastic to where his boyfriend has apparently been knocked out with drugs and is shivering hard again like he should be. “Can I wait here with him? Pasta could probably get Jake to help with that sensor, right?”

“Sure. Just be quiet, let everything wear off so he can wake up on his own.”

“Why did you drug him?”

“Because he probably would’ve started panicking otherwise, which he doesn’t need to do any more of than he already has.”

Patrice sits on the cot closest to the quarantine section. Brad had to be put in there the first time his suit ripped, too, but Patrice was unconscious for that and never saw it - Brad had only described it to him later. Seeing it now, it bothers him a lot more than it probably should. Brad’s safe, he’s getting warm again, but he’s also drugged into sleep inside a plastic box. Patrice already knows he’s going to freak out the second he wakes up, and then he’ll just be stuck in there for days while they make sure he doesn’t get sick… it’ll be like their guest mission to Second Institute, where they had to pretend not to be a couple the whole time, except worse because now Patrice won’t be able to even give him casual contact. His boyfriend is going to get anxious (even moreso) and then depressed, and that’ll only make the situation even worse than it already is…

Then Patrice realizes Dima has pulled over a chair and sat a couple feet from him, holding a clipboard.

“Bergy, I think while you’re waiting for him to come to you should talk about what happened. Is that okay?”

Oh. Right. Dima is a psychologist, Patrice has just completely forgotten that detail until now.

“Um. Yeah. Okay.”

“Start with the accident, alright? Just explain what you saw first, nothing about how you felt because we’ll get to that after. Only what it looked like for now.”

Patrice complies, describing the shelf collapsing and how Brad got buried under several crates of tools. “…but he didn’t start screaming until I tried to help him, and… oh my god, I’m the one who ripped his suit…”

“Patrice, stop, don’t go there yet. Just what you saw.”

He talks about Brad having a full-on panic attack in the oxygen garden and his orders to Pasta that were against the rules. Finally, Brad starting to turn blue from cold and trying to keep him awake on the drive back.

“Okay. So, now how are you feeling?”

“I ripped his suit…” Patrice mumbles, looking at the floor. “I was trying to help but I almost killed him instead. Fuck, I almost killed my boyfriend…”

“You didn’t,” Dima insists in a soothing tone. He’s very good at his job. “You thought he was hurt and you did what you thought you needed to do to help him. Imagine, for a second, if I was on this mission with Ilya, and this happened to him. Imagine I have the same reaction as you did, with identical consequences. If you saw me doing these things, would it look so unreasonable to you?”

“No,” Patrice admits.

“Good. Because nothing you did was unreasonable. You didn’t know, at that moment, that something had caught in his suit and would rip it. You didn’t know in the oxygen garden that the insulation was torn as well. At the time you made these decisions, you were doing what you thought was necessary to save someone you love. That’s never unreasonable. Everything you have described to me here says you did your absolute best to salvage the physical and mental health of your boyfriend.”

Patrice nods. “I just didn’t want him to get more scared than he already was… the first time, I gave him the whole oxygen tank, so he only went without for one minute but I went without for seven and I almost asphyxiated. I plugged my air into his suit at the outbuilding and he screamed at me for it… he thought I would end up almost dying again. He was so afraid something would happen to me, even though he was the one in trouble.”

By now, Patrice is in tears. The drops of moisture run down and soak into his scruff.

“The incident will be reported to Roscosmos, of course, but we’re going to do everything we can to keep Marchy here. Vadik is considering a project proposal already, something along the lines of studying him to see about the possibility of rehabilitating astronauts and cosmonauts from mental trauma. He’s going to write to them saying it could save costs, such as fuel for evacuation and the time and resources for training replacements. That sort of thing. He’s not going anywhere if we have anything to say about it.”

“That was fast,” Patrice remarks, wiping under one eye and trying to get a grip on himself.

“Well, he hasn’t started drafting it yet. But from what Pasta and Backy described it seemed like a good idea, given what Marchy told us in his interview about the first time he had an incident in the field. We’re trying to be proactive about it. Of course we also have to wait for him to tell us what he wants. If he wants to leave, we’ll try to convince him not to, but it’s up to him at the end.”

“He won’t want to leave,” Patrice insists.

“I believe you, but we still have to give him the choice.” Dima pauses for a moment. “Now listen, Bergy. It seems likely you’re going to have some issues going forward as well after this. When you have those issues, you must come speak to me about them. Don’t try to ignore them and wait for them to go away on their own, because they won’t. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

“Don’t ‘try,’ do. And don’t insult Marchy’s intelligence by saying you’re fine if he notices and asks if something’s wrong. He won’t appreciate it.”

Patrice nods. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dima sticks his pencil into the top of his clipboard and stands up. “Alright, I’ll leave you alone for now. Thank you for cooperating, Bergy. Vadik may come over to speak with you later, but I’m not sure, he might not think it’s necessary. And Krej asked me to remind you that no matter how sad Marchy gets, you can’t break quarantine and go in there, it’s against the rules for more than a few reasons. Have him put his hands on the sheeting, you can touch through the plastic. But that’s it.”

“Alright, I will,” he agrees, not sure if he’ll be able to resist the urge in reality.

After Dima leaves, Patrice just stays sitting on the cot, watching Krej go in briefly to check Brad’s fingers and toes for frostbite. He wears a mask and gloves just for that; Patrice wonders how dangerous they think Brad really is, or if they think they’re putting Brad in danger without these precautions.

“He’s going to be fine,” Krej answers as he comes back out before Patrice can even ask. “When he wakes up, just remind him over and over that this is only for five days.”

“Okay.”

Five days will be such a long time. That’s one hundred and twenty hours where Patrice can’t touch him, can’t snuggle up to him while falling asleep, can’t kiss him or hug him or anything. He wishes he could get closer than the plastic will let him at least so that he can watch Brad breathe; Krej was saying something about that earlier when they brought Brad in, words Patrice didn’t quite understand but that he thinks meant Brad wasn’t breathing the way he should’ve been at the time.

“Bergy.”

“Yeah?”

Krej makes eye contact and doesn’t blink. “I mean it, he’s going to be fine.”

“Okay. I believe you.”

“You very clearly don’t. Please trust me, okay? Marchy’s going to recover. We’re going to help him through the mental stuff, too. I promise you’ll have him back before the end of next week.”

“Why do you have to wear gloves to go in there?”

Now Krej gives him a look. “You’re not going in, Bergy.”

“But you go in there.”

“I’m a doctor. You’re an engineer. It’s against protocol. If you want to get really technical, me and Backy shouldn’t have both been in there at once, it should’ve just been me working on him because now both of us could get sick and then there’s no doctors. You’re not going in there. I know it sucks, and I know you were scared you might lose him, but it really is only five days. Five days isn’t going to kill either of you.”

“What about when you said the antibiotics were just going to be a precaution?”

“They are. Precautions exist for a reason. Most people don’t get into accidents when they drive, but there are still laws requiring seatbelts, aren’t there? Now, since you’re clearly freaking out about this, I’m sending you to the cafeteria for lunch right now. I promise I’ll come find you if he wakes up before you’re done eating. And if I find out you just go there and sit for half an hour without having lunch, them I’m going to put you on IV nutrition and tie you to your bunk.”

“But you said I can wait here for him…”

“That was before you started panicking. Go eat. You can come back after you do that.”

Patrice does go to the cafeteria to eat some nutrient paste, mainly because he knows Krej wasn’t kidding about tying him down if he doesn’t comply. Normally he has to force himself to choke down the bland gruel, but right now it’s especially difficult to do so. He manages half a serving before going back, and once there he doesn’t feel any better because Brad’s still out. He pushes the cot all the way over so that it sits against the clear plastic barrier, then lays down and watches Brad sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if I got any of the medical stuff wrong, I did my best.
> 
> A note on them removing the air supply pack from Marchy's suit before putting him on the stretcher - you won't immediately suffocate and die without an air cylinder so long as your breathing isn't obstructed. Left like that, he would've been poisoned by the CO2 in his breath, but they immediately got him into a vehicle and plugged him into its oxygen, so it didn't matter.
> 
> I myself once almost froze to death - it's very unpleasant. The stupid thing is that this only happened because I didn't have my own vehicle and my boyfriend was at work, so I had to walk a total of about four and a half miles because the post office required a package to get signed for. This was my first winter in Maine so I naturally assumed it would be just like winter in Vermont - obnoxiously frigid but otherwise dry, given that it was early February at the time. This wasn't so. The temperature outside was about 30 Fahrenheit and I usually stay warm enough just by walking anyway, so I went out in hiking boots, fatigue pants, and a sweatshirt. About twenty minutes into this walk, the freezing rain started, and it didn't stop for the rest of the day. This means that by the time I got to the post office I was beyond soaked, I was very miserable, my boots were full of water. And then I had to walk all the way back with a package. The only reason I didn't stop to take a break (and subsequently freeze) was because I've been hiking and camping my whole life, and I knew that was a terrible idea. When I got into my kitchen at home I left all my clothes in a heap on the floor and they were covered in ice, put on a sweater and pajamas and a dry winter hat, and then took a two-hour nap under about six blankets. When I woke up there was a small pond in my kitchen. It hurts to be cold and you're fucking exhausted after, because staying warm takes lots of calories, especially when your clothes get saturated and then literally freeze.


	8. Second Week of July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be slightly boring (it's a lot of talking about Brad being a science experiment) but the ending is probably worth it :)

“Dima let me out!” Brad demands as the cosmonaut comes over.

“Not yet, Marchy, you’re still in quarantine for four more hours.”

“Does four hours even make a fucking difference?!”

“I can’t let you out, Marchy.”

“Dima, let him out,” Patrice begs.

“He can’t come out, his quarantine’s not up.” Dima looks at Brad again. “Marchy, it’s just four more hours. You made it this far and it hasn’t killed you yet. You’ll be out in time for lunch. Please sit down and take some breaths.”

As distressing as this is, it’s head and shoulders over where Brad was when he first woke up in quarantine. He’d been completely hysterical, losing his mind, alternating between curling into a ball in the corner or yelling through the plastic that they would never get him to put on a pressure suit again because he was sick of almost getting killed wearing them. Now he spends a lot of time pacing back and forth diagonally across the 3-meter-by-3-meter box, or putting his palms against the barrier so that Patrice can touch the same spot and they can feel the warmth coming through between their hands.

“Bradley, please sit,” Dima gently insists a second time. “We need to talk about some things. Patrice, you too. Maybe put your chairs next to each other by the plastic.”

They do exactly that, both leaning sideways so their heads are touching through the barrier. If he’s honest with himself, Patrice knows this is affecting him almost as much as it is Brad - the lack of contact is almost getting physically painful by now. Brad’s just more obvious about it, constantly moaning about how he can’t sleep by himself and other things like that. The horrible truth is he clearly means it, because the circles under his eyes are growing and he’s starting to get the shakes. His eyes are sad too, like he wants to cry sometimes but forgot how he’s supposed to go about doing that, and there’s always a tiny spark of fear in them too.

So of course, that gets addressed first: “Marchy, why are you looking at me like you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“Because you’re probably about to say they found something in my blood and now I’m stuck in here forever.”

“No, your labs are clean as far as I last heard. Now, Bergy, you’re going to tell Marchy the same thing you said to me yesterday when we were talking about his injury in the field.”

“Oh… you really want me to start with that?”

“I think it’s important, yes. He should get to know how you feel.”

“Okay.” Patrice looks over through the plastic - for some reason Brad has to wear a procedure mask constantly unless he’s eating, so all Patrice can see are his eyes. “That was the worst day of my life. I thought I killed you, it’s my fault your suit ripped.”

“No it’s not,” Brad argues. “Something was already stuck in it. I could hear the hissing before you were even trying to unbury me, the thing was stabbing me in the arm. There was already a hole.”

“Well then I made it worse at least,” Patrice points out. “God, Brad, if I just slowed down and looked-”

“Pat, stop it,” Brad snaps, already upset with this conversation. “I don’t want to talk about this, okay? You didn’t almost kill me, it was a fucking accident already. You didn’t pick for this to happen to me.”

“Alright, please, both of you calm down,” Dima interrupts. “Marchy, your boyfriend is trying to express how he feels, and it’s a good idea for you to let him do that even if you think he’s wrong. We’ll talk about it once he’s done. Bergy, please continue.”

“I thought you were going to die, Brad,” he admits, very quietly. “Not… not right away, but when you got cold… when you stopped talking to us on the drive up… and they wouldn’t let me go in there with you, obviously. I wanted to snuggle you and make you warm again, but I couldn’t. When you get out of there we’re just going to lie in bed for the rest of the week and have Charlie bring us our food.”

Brad closes his eyes. “Well, now you know how I felt when you gave up your air. But you always tell me you’d do it again, and I know you would, and that’s really fucking scary, Pat, okay? I know you were going to do it all over again. I couldn’t watch you almost die again for me, and… and I was already cold, I knew what I was doing but I had to do it anyway, because… fuck, you just… you fell off the side of the ATV and I had to drag you into decon, and Krej stuck this tube down your throat because you couldn’t breathe on your own, and… I had to just sit in here, like I’m doing right now, watching them do all this shit to you so that you would just breathe again. You want to talk about the scariest day of your life? Because that was the scariest day of mine.”

Brad’s voice trails into a whimper on the last word as his face crumples behind the procedure mask. Patrice is about ready to use his fingernails to claw a hole in the plastic barrier just so he can climb through it and hug his boyfriend, but he knows that if he tries to do that Dima will stop him.

“Brad, don’t cry, okay? We’re both still here.” He’s such a hypocrite saying that when his own eyes are stinging. “You’ll be out of there soon, we’ll have lunch and then a really long nap together.”

“Sorry,” Brad hiccups, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Now what, Dima?”

“This is very good,” he assures them. “It’s important for you to be on the same page. Now, how else do you feel, Bergy?”

Patrice looks over at his boyfriend again. “I love you, Bradley. And I’m sorry I scared you back then.”

“I love you too, Pat… I love you so much. I didn’t mean to scare you, either. I didn’t mean to yell just now, I’m just really frustrated and pissed off and tired, and I really need a nap like you’ve been talking about…” Brad sniffs again and scrubs his face.

“Good,” Dima encourages, scribbling briefly on his clipboard. “Alright. Now, let’s talk about how things are going to go forward for you, Marchy. Of course we can’t start sending you on field assignments right away after this, there are too many unresolved issues to figure out. I’ve been speaking with Bruce and Z, and there’s going to have to be restrictions at first once you’re cleared to start going on field assignments again. For one, you won’t be sent further than five kilometers from  _ Dacha. _ This means if there’s a rover repair further out than that, Bergy and Brusky will be sent, and you’ll stay here.”

“Okay, but why?” Brad wonders.

“Because you won’t be able to overcome your discomfort right away. All of these restrictions are being stipulated for the sake of your mental health Marchy. It’s not because we don’t trust you or that we’re trying to punish you, it’s to help you gradually get back to normal. And this won’t be happening right away anyway. You’re restricted from leaving the complex at all for the next two months. However, for the first month, Bergy is restricted from it as well.”

“I am?”

“Yes. You also have lingering trauma to be dealt with, so you’re going to stay here at  _ Dacha _ and your return to field work, both of you, is pending reevaluation by me after your time frames. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, that makes sense. Is there anything I can do to help make it easier for Brad to make that transition later?”

“We’ll talk about that once we get to that point. Now, Marchy, when your quarantine ends, I’m going to assume you’ll become unavailable for discussion. So that’s why we’re talking about this now instead. We’re going to set some goals for you, for how you’d like your recovery to progress. Tell me a little bit what most scares you about wearing a pressure suit.”

“I’m just trapped inside it,” Brad mumbles. “If something goes wrong I still have to wear it, even if it doesn’t make a difference and I’ll just die anyway. Both times I just wanted to take the fucking thing off, but I couldn’t. I didn’t like wearing them to begin with, either. I was always scared of something going wrong with my suit even before the first time it ripped. I heard some people feel safe wearing them, but I never did, the suits always made me feel trapped. Even when it was just training on Earth.”

“I see… and what helped you to cope with this fear in the past?”

“There was this one time, Pat was talking about it to me and he said something. Like that I should think about the suit as any other tool, it helps me go out and see a whole other world that most people will never get to be on. So I always used to think about that.”

“And isn’t that still true? Your boyfriend wasn’t wrong to say that to you.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t help anymore when this ‘tool’ keeps almost getting my ass iced,” Brad answers.

“I can understand that,” Dima nods. “So how did you cope after the first incident?”

“Pat always inspects my suit for me. He touches everything and looks to make sure the air cylinders are full. I trust him when he says everything’s fine.”

“That’s very good. Now… please consider, Marchy, that there has never been anything wrong with your suit.”

“I got fucking hypothermia this time-”

“Please let me finish.”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“There has never been anything wrong with your suit,” Dima repeats. “The suit hasn’t ever failed on its own. There was no report of defects while you wore it. Instead, both times, an object ruptured the outer shell of the suit and caused air leakage. By itself, the suit never had anything wrong with it. It has always functioned as intended, keeping you warm and letting you breathe outside the complex. If you were wearing a blanket and someone ran up with a knife to stab you, would you blame the blanket for getting you hurt?”

“…no.”

“Then in that case, you can’t blame your suit for the same thing. Because that’s how it happened. Anyone else’s suit could’ve ripped, but it doesn’t happen. Besides that, it’s just more likely for something to go wrong for you and Bergy on field assignments because you leave to go do them more often than anyone else. It’s the risk you knew you would face when you came here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, I want you to think about those things, as often as you can. That the suit, by itself, has always kept you safe. And you knew that it’s dangerous to go out, but you’ve always chosen to do so anyway.”

“Okay.”

“Bergy, do you have any input about this?”

“Just that I want him to be okay again.” Patrice looks at Brad through the plastic. “I’m going to feel lost when you’re not out there with me.”

“So, I think it could be a good idea to see the suit get fixed. Pasta has held off on it at my request, so tomorrow when you’re feeling better you’ll come here to my office and watch him do it. Then you can see for yourself that it’s whole again, and that could help you feel more confident in being able to wear it later. After that, we should work on some goals. What do you think those should be?”

“To go on missions again?”

“Yes, that’s the point you want to get back to, but it has to be done in steps. I had a thought that you could start out by wearing the suit inside the complex, without your helmet or gloves. It would be on a time limit and just to help you feel more comfortable wearing it. This way it would be in an area where you already know you’re safe.”

“Great, so I get to be hanging around here looking like an idiot as I sit on my ass and don’t do any work.”

“I’ll do it with you,” Patrice offers. “Then we’ll both look like idiots as we sit on our asses and don’t work.” Brad laughs a little at that, which makes him feel better. He wants Brad to laugh and be okay again. “Is that okay, Dima? Can I do it with him?”

“Yes, it’s perfectly fine. I think that’s a very good idea, actually. So, we’ll have you do this for an hour each morning for the first month. Then for the second month, we’ll start bringing you outside, in just small increments. Five minutes at first. You’ll put on the suit, I will also put on my suit and so will Patrice if he’s not out on an assignment by then. All three of us will go out through the airlock to spend five minutes outside, and then go back in. We’ll do it that way until you’re more comfortable, and then for ten minutes, and then for fifteen, and so on. Then at the end of the second month, I’ll reevaluate you. But you won’t be rushed into anything for this. We’ll go at your pace, and no steps will get taken until you’re ready for them. Once you feel good to go on assignments again, they’ll all be restricted to five kilometers so you won’t be too far from us. Once you’re going on missions again, you will have to check in with me as soon as you return from them for the rest of this year, even once the distance restriction is lifted.”

“Yeah, okay. Makes sense.”

“Good. Alright, once you’re out of quarantine, you must sign a document. Vadik has drafted this as a project proposal and a copy will be sent to Roscosmos and NASA, because you’re now part of an experiment. This is the only way we could think of to make it so that you can stay here. Do you understand? You’ll have to follow the treatment plan exactly. For all intents and purposes, they’re going to categorize you as a test subject. But in the long run it could be very helpful. Not just for you, but for others later who might have similar problems. You’re an object of study for the Russian government. You can still say no if you want, but there’s a very good chance you’ll be taken back and never allowed to return. So please think about it carefully.”

“I’ll sign,” Brad answers without even pausing. “I’m okay being studied. You’ve been writing about me this whole time anyway, right?”

“Yes, we have, but those notes are going to be sent to the other space agencies and not Roscosmos. They wouldn’t accept the data anyway so we won’t share it with them. Now… Bergy, you aren’t going to be an object of study, but we need to come up with a plan for you as well. Bruce stipulated that you must come speak with me for the first two months after you’re allowed back on field assignments, to make sure you don’t experience problems. I can also write it into your treatment plan that you’re going to participate in your boyfriend’s recovery, if you wish.”

“Yeah, that sounds fine. What else do I have to do?”

“Any time you have even the slightest issue - a nightmare, maybe, or a moment where you stop and have to think about what you’re doing in the field on a job you’ve done a hundred times before - you have to come speak with me about it. We have to keep things in check for you.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Good. Alright… now, I do have some good news,  _ Vtoroy Institut _ has informed us we’ll start being given real food by the end of August. They specified that it’s not quite at the same level of quality as what they have there, because their staff is much bigger, but we’ll no longer have to suffer the nutrient paste. I was under the impression from the document that we’ll be given IRP meal sets and possibly dried snacks, as well as vodka. So you’ll have that to look forward to coming up. Besides that, I’m finished with you both for now. Krej should appear shortly to do a final set of labs for you, Marchy.”

Krej does come over a few minutes after Dima leaves, still with the gloves and mask when he enters the box.

“Okay, Marchy, last time… give me your arm…”

Five or six vials of blood, then a temperature, and Krej leaves them alone again. They spend the rest of the wait pressed against the plastic, trying to reach through it to touch each other. Patrice is doing everything he can not to show Brad how afraid he is that the labs will turn up something, even though Krej and Backes have been checking twice a day through the entire quarantine. He knows that if he panics, Brad will panic too, and that won’t help anything.

Finally Backes comes over holding a packet of paper. “Marchy… you should know what we found…”

“What?” Brad demands, overtly terrified.

Backes makes eye contact, then his expression cracks and he starts giggling. “Absolutely nothing, you’re free to go now.” And he opens the plastic box.

Brad comes sprinting out of it and throws himself into Patrice’s arms so hard that he almost knocks both of them to the floor. Patrice tears off the procedure mask and kisses his whole face, hugging him as tight a possible and never wanting to let go again. He can feel his brain flood with endorphins at just getting to touch Brad, no longer separated by a thick sheet of clear plastic but making skin contact again for the first time in days.

They’re much too tired and wrung out to have sex right now, but Patrice takes Brad to the showers anyway to scrub that awful medical smell from both their bodies. They spend more than half an hour under the water, lathering soap gel over each other’s skin so they can touch any place they can reach with their hands and kissing the whole time. Neither of them says anything, because it would be pointless. There’s no words for this feeling, the sensation of being whole again after getting torn apart.


	9. Third Week of July

“This is stupid,” Brad grumbles as he dons his suit.

Today is his boyfriend’s first day of therapy; they spent the last four laying around on Patrice’s bunk snuggling, only getting up if they absolutely had to. Now, they’re going to be wearing their pressure suits for an hour without even leaving the complex. Patrice is trying very hard not to smile, though, because he has a surprise for Brad.

“You’re going to be okay,” he soothes. “Dima knows what he’s doing. Besides, you’re a lab rat now, you’re going to have international attention when we get home. You’ll be famous.”

“Yay.”

Their hoods, helmets, and gloves all get left in their wall lockers as they clomp out into the hall. Patrice reaches over and holds his hand for the entire walk to the cafeteria, and is unsurprised that Brad stops dead in the doorway when he sees everyone else hanging around wearing their suits, too.

“The hell’s going on?”

“Solidarity, bro,” Pasta grins, slapping Brad on the arm. “If you have to put up with this shit, we might as well do it with you.”

Because of the air supply packs, they’re all forced to sit with their chairs backwards around the table. Tuukka takes a picture of everyone else with his iPad, this bizarre scene of them eating while wearing pressure suits.

Brad looks sideways at Patrice as they sit: “Are you behind this?”

He can’t help the smile that breaks free. “Yeah… I thought maybe this way you wouldn’t feel so weird about it.” Both of Brad’s eyebrows go up and Patrice freezes. “What - are you mad?”

“No, I just didn’t expect this…” Brad lightly pulls Patrice closer by the neck joint of his suit and kisses him, drawing chirps and teasing noises. “You’re the best, Pat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to this chapter being unreasonably short I will also post chapter 10 this morning as well.


	10. First Week of September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this chapter immediately upon discovering an update, please note that there is a pathetically short chapter that comes before it just so you don't miss it :)

“What even is this?” Jake wonders, looking at the label. “‘ _Taranechka_ ’? Is it any good?”

“It’s fish jerky,” Brad answers, grabbing the bag from him and popping it open. “And it is really good, eat some. Be careful, though. Like half of them will still have bones and shit.”

Patrice watches this exchange as he eats an 80-gram can of processed cheese. For the time being they’re now getting fed on EMERCOM field rations and dried snacks until Roscosmos can come up with something better. Honestly, he’s fine with this arrangement. Each of the blue-packaged IRP rations are a solid two kilograms of food, with crackers and desserts and even packs of chewing gum. There’s enough stuff in each one to go for more than three meals and it’s all very filling, high-calorie and high-protein food products. Somehow, whenever people think “places with great food,” they always go for countries like Italy and France, but nobody ever says “Russia.” Which is really sad in Patrice’s opinion. Russia has excellent food.

“Did you guys read this thing?” Charlie laughs, holding up the supply order. “Apparently we’re all supposed to be given three hundred and fifty grams of vodka a week, but no more than that… a third of a liter of fucking vodka a _week!_ How much do they think we drink over here?”

“They wrote that list for cosmonauts, not for us,” Backes chuckles, prying open a can of meat and vegetables with beans. “Russians drink a lot. They probably just assumed we all would, too. And incidentally, Krej is countermanding that one. Nobody’s going to get more than one hundred grams of vodka a week.”

“That’s no fun,” Brad scoffs.

“You don’t need all that liquor, Bradley. Every time we went out to bars you’d always have too much and start dancing shirtless on top of tables and stuff,” Patrice groans.

“You never stopped me.”

“Actually, I tried to stop you, every time but the first time. Somehow you always managed to keep sneaking drinks, and then I’d look away for _two seconds_ and you’d be climbing onto a table when I turned back to you. Don’t try to deny it, there’s video evidence, your brother filmed you doing everything I just said when we visited your family over the summer.”

“You like me shirtless, though.”

“Yeah, I do, but not in public. You don’t need any vodka.”

“Buzzkill.”

“More like buzz-preventor?” Charlie suggests, leaning back in his chair and sucking apple jelly out of a packet.

“Why are you wearing your glasses, babe?” Jake asks.

“I lost one of my contacts, now I have to wait the entire month to get more in the next shipment.”

“And here is the last box, finally,” Vadik announces as he comes into the cafeteria. “And it all belongs to me! Nobody else gets any, not even you, Dimochka!”

“Well, now we know which box has the vodka,” Backes points out.

“I’m going to steal the whole box,” Brad decides, grinning shamelessly.

“No you’re not,” Patrice counters. “If you start getting drunk and acting like a dumbass, I’m going to withold sex from you until you stop doing it.”

“Why do you have to be so mean to me, Pat?” Brad pouts.

“Because when you drink too much you get stupid, and I’m sick of you narrowly avoiding drunk concussions when you fall off things.”

“Christ, alright, I promise to be less of a jackass when it comes to the vodka,” Brad grumbles, rolling his eyes.

Patrice smiles and leans over to kiss the end of his nose. “Thank you, Bradley.”

Brad grabs him before he can move away and pulls him in for a much more involved kiss. “I have a surprise for you later, Pat.”

“Oh yeah? The good kind or the bad kind?”

Brad’s ears turn red and his eyes flick to the side briefly. “Uh, that kind of depends on what you say to me when you find out what it is,” he stammers.

“Now I’m scared,” Patrice jokes. “Did you find some baby alien and now you want to bring it home to keep as a pet?”

Brad laughs. “No, it’s nothing like that. You’ll find out.”

They finish up their breakfast and leave the cafeteria with Dima - today will be Brad’s first field assignment post-quarantine. Not that it’s much of a field assignment at all, they’re going to be changing the regenerative oxygen canisters inside an MPC, which means they’ll be less than ten meters from _Dacha_ the entire time. But it’s the sort of low-key, no-stress job that’s perfect to get Brad back on his feet.

In theory, anyway.

Because Patrice is pulling on his gloves when he notices Brad staring into the clear visor of his helmet, all the blood gone from his face.

“Brad, hey.” Patrice takes the helmet from him. “It’s okay if you’re not ready yet, you don’t have to go rushing back out there if you don’t think you can handle it.”

“I want to,” Brad insists, stubbornly grabbing the helmet back and jamming it down onto his suit’s neck joint. His claustrophobia is painted all over his expression, but maybe his hard-headed stubbornness will save him from it. Brad obviously needs this to be over with, he wants to get better and return to a normal work schedule.

Patrice sighs. “Okay, Brad, if you’re sure.”

He has his boyfriend stand up for a suit inspection. Everything looks fine - there’s no reason why it shouldn’t look fine to begin with - but Patrice triple-checks all of it, every single connection, even though Pasta and Charlie just barely stress-tested all their suits last month.

“Am I full?” Brad asks, fidgeting a little.

“Of course.”

“What does the gauge say?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Can you look again?”

“Okay.” Patrice looks again even though it’s pointless. “It’s still a hundred, Brad. Do you really want to do this?”

“Yeah.” Brad sounds like he doesn’t know whether he’s lying or not when he says it.

“We can postpone this task until tomorrow,” Dima suggests, watching them both carefully.

“Bruce said today,” Brad answers stubbornly.

“I think he would understand.”

“Can we just fucking get this over with, please?” he demands, gloved hands balling up.

Patrice and Dima share a look. Brad’s freaking out, but he’s also obviously humiliated by the fact that he’s freaking out and is trying to overcompensate for it. There needs to be some kind of change here.

“Marchy, it’s detailed in your treatment plan that steps don’t get taken unless you’re ready for them, and right now it doesn’t seem like you are. You shouldn’t try to force things… if we bring you outside right now, I think you may have a panic attack, so we should just postpone this until tomorrow when you’re feeling better. This doesn’t put you back any, though. It’s more like a pause.”

Brad shuffles a little, resting his weight on one foot and then the other. “What if, uh, what if we like, did a timer? Like how we’ve been doing it. Just set the timer for fifteen minutes, except I’ll be actually doing something useful instead of just standing by the airlock. Then when the timer goes off if I’m still losing my shit I can go back in.”

Dima seems to consider this for a second. “Do you think you’ll be able to handle that? If you start to have problems, you have to tell me right away.”

Brad nods rapidly. “Yeah, yeah, I can do it.”

“Alright. We’ll try that, then.” Dima snaps down his own helmet. “We’re going to be just nine and a half meters from the airlock, Marchy, so if you have a problem it’s very easy for us to bring you back inside. I want you to think about that when we go out: it’s very easy for you to come back in if you need it.”

“Okay.”

Patrice grabs Brad’s hand and squeezes through their gloves as the three of them step into the airlock. Brad squeezes back twice as hard. He tries to think of something distracting as the hatch closes behind them and the hiss of depressurization starts.

“So what kind of surprise do you have for me later, Brad?”

“What? Uh… the surprising kind.”

“Okay, but can I get a hint?”

“People do it all the time, but I’m doing it different from how everyone else does.”

That’s beyond confusing and for a second he can’t think of a response. “Is this going to be the birthday cake all over again?”

“No. There’s no ovens here. Plus I learned my damn lesson about that, okay?” Brad shouts, annoyed. “Yes! I should’ve just checked the fucking directions! Fucking sue me! It was one cake!”

“Yes, it was one cake. It was also the entire next day that you spent cleaning the oven and bitching about it so loud our whole building heard you reciting every swear you’ve ever learned.”

“Oh my fucking god, Pat. I bought you a cake to make up for it, and you said it was delicious.”

“It was delicious. That’s completely beside the point. You ruined an entire cake because you were too stubborn.”

They’re walking now and Brad doesn’t even seem to notice, he’s too worked up. “For fuck’s sake! It was a _cake!_ I didn’t burn down the apartment or hurt myself! Fucking let it go already!”

“But I had to hear about it for an entire week after. You just wouldn’t stop bitching about it,” Patrice answers, trying really hard not to grin because his tactic is working perfectly.

“Oh my god! I cleaned up the fucking oven and replaced the fucking cake! You had a nice birthday! Why the fuck are we even talking about this?”

“Because you can’t be trusted around cake, which is just sad. And also because it makes me suspicious of whatever your surprise will be if you can’t handle a pastry by yourself.”

“You’re the literal fucking worst sometimes, Pat! I didn’t even know you hold grudges! Especially not for a fucking birthday cake!” Brad yells over the comm.

“I don’t hold grudges,” Patrice informs him. “Especially not over cake.”

“Then why the fuck are even talking about this?”

“Because now you’re not scared anymore,” he answers, finally smiling as he turns to look at his boyfriend.

“Wait - what? How’d you do that?”

“I’m magic,” he jokes.

Brad laughs and grabs him for a hug. “Yeah, you are.” Their helmet visors tap together. “I love you so much, Pat.”

“I know, I love you too. Come on, let’s do some oxygen cans.”

They climb up the side and pull open the top panel - the color indicators on every unit have turned blue, which means they need twelve potassium superoxide canisters. The regulator valves are snapped open and the spent units are tossed over the side of the vehicle, then Patrice drags a crate of fresh ones up and starts unpacking them. Each one is uncapped, slotted into the feed channel, clamped down, and then the valve is closed over the output end. Each canister has a twist-valve on one end in case the electronics fail and they need to be activated manually, but normally they’re opened by the regulator valves.

The third one is being clamped down when Dima’s alarm goes off. Brad and Patrice share a look, shrug, and get back to work. The task is completed in about forty five minutes, and then they’re gathering up the packaging.

“You did very well, Marchy,” Dima comments when they’re entering the airlock for decon.

“I guess. What if I have to go do something without Pat? I probably wouldn’t have made it out the door without him.”

“We can work on that. You did well,” he insists.

They’re cleaned by the decon spray and Patrice sets aside his helmet, then pulls off both his and Brad’s gloves. He kisses the backs of Brad’s hands, then goes for the neck joint. Off comes the helmet and down goes the hood - Patrice kisses his forehead, then his nose, then his mouth. He only pulls back to take off his suit the rest of the way when he sees that his boyfriend is smiling.

“See? You’re okay. Everything went fine, neither of us choked or froze,” Patrice murmurs, pulling Brad in for a hug once they’re both free of their pressure suits. Their foreheads rest together. “Your suit did fine. We both did fine.”

“You kept me sane,” Brad whispers, hazel eyes closing. “I couldn’t do that shit without you, Pat…”

“That’s okay. We can get this figured out for you again.”

They head for Dima and Vadik’s office in medical to be given their mandatory post-mission evals, then go to their bunk and snuggle for awhile as they wait for lunch. Patrice never stops rubbing his back and kissing his face. Brad relaxes a little more under every light, loving touch; he’s so receptive to affection, which is another thing Patrice loves about his boyfriend. Ever since Jake asked that question, he hasn’t been able to stop himself from constantly listing things in his mind, reasons he loves Brad. So far he’s come up with at least a hundred, details that are small and large and everywhere in between. If asked to choose one reason, the thing that makes him love Brad the most, Patrice would only be able to say “everything.” He could never pick just one thing that he loves more than all the other things. Even the annoying parts of Brad, he loves.

Finally it’s time for lunch. Patrice doesn’t want to get up.

“We have actual food now,” Brad grins as they peel themselves out of Patrice’s bunk.

“Make sure you’re careful at dinner later, we’re playing against Charlie and Jake after that,” Patrice reminds him.

Brad’s shuffling his feet again and looking anywhere but at Patrice. “Uh, so you should go to the cafeteria ahead of me, just give me like two minutes.”

“Is this part of your surprise?”

“Yes…?”

Patrice chuckles and kisses him. “Okay.”

In the cafeteria, everyone else is trickling in as well and nobody seems to know anything about the coming surprise beyond what they heard Brad saying about it this morning. IRPs are opened, vitamin water is distributed. Pasta trades his packet of jelly with Tuukka for the bar of chocolate. Jake tries a piece of fish jerky and gets a bone stabbing him in the gum for his efforts. Vadik eats a can of meat, a can of cheese, and then four of his six packages of crackers. Patrice enjoys 250 grams of rice cereal with beef.

Finally Brad appears, and eleven pairs of curious eyes are all on him. He fidgets for a second.

“Pat, uh, can you stand up?”

“Sure,” he smiles, obliging. Then Brad kneels in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“Just - don’t ask questions yet, okay? I got a bunch of stuff I want to say first.”

Patrice thinks he might know where this is going now, but… “Okay, go ahead.”

Brad takes a huge breath and then lets it out again. “I know I say this kind of a lot, but you’re amazing, okay? Seriously, you’re just - okay I forgot the word I was about to use. Whatever. Um. I drive people crazy, and I’m loud and kind of weird sometimes, but you never get mad about that shit. You almost choked to death for me once just because I was scared, and even though I’m still mad you did that at all I know probably nobody else would ever do the same thing. You make me not have to be scared of shit, and you laugh at all my stupid jokes, and you let me be all clingy with you. And I just love you so much for that. So, uh, so when we get back I um. I want to, uh, I want to marry you. If you’ll let me.”

Patrice, before saying anything, reaches down and pulls him to his feet. “You don’t have to kneel, Brad, I don’t want you to feel like you’re not even with me. And yes, I’ll marry you… on one condition.”

“Sure, anything!”

“You’re not allowed to make the cake yourself. You can’t be trusted with cakes.”

Brad laughs so hard he collapses into Patrice’s arms and drags them both to the floor. Getting back up again, Brad digs around in his chest pocket for a second.

“So I don’t have an actual engagement ring, but the wires in rover cameras are made out of gold, so can I give you a placeholder until I can get you a real one?”

Now it’s Patrice’s turn to start laughing, and he lets Brad wrap the stranded wire around his finger. “This is fine, it’s probably more unique than most people’s engagement rings anyway.”

Their colleagues demand they kiss, then take turns hugging them both… and then the chirping begins. Patrice realizes that, “real” ring or not, he and Brad are the first people to ever get engaged on Mars. That thought is incredible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Russian food notes:
> 
> 1\. EMERCOM rations are the best MREs ever invented. They're literally 2 kilos of food and it's all good stuff in there.  
> 2\. Taranechka fish jerky is very good but loaded with bones. If you're going to eat it, be super careful because your food will hurt you and get revenge for you eating it at any given chance.  
> 3\. There are other IRP sets besides the EMERCOM ones (the Russian Army has like five different brands that it issues) but the EMERCOM ones aren't for the army - they're for rescue missions performed by the state fire service or by police units and are much tastier than the army versions.  
> 4\. Again, Roscosmos would totally load them all up on vodka.
> 
> On a non-food note, the regenerative potassium superoxide canisters talked about in this chapter are a real thing. In real life, they're an unsafe alternative to SCBA platforms or SCUBA gear that produces oxygen through a chemical process. These canisters, if exposed to water or open flames, will explode. So naturally, for a very long time, in Russia they were issued to firemen and divers. (I'm not sure if they still issue them to divers but I know that firefighters now use SCBA tanks like in the US.) However as there's no liquid water on Mars and it's also extremely cold there, these would be a fairly safe and viable option for long-lasting oxygen generation inside vehicles.


	11. Second Week of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting an hour early because I don't know if I'll still be up at midnight and also I'm impatient as fuck.

“So how do we do Christmas up here?” Charlie wonders as he eats some beef  _ tushenka _ out of his IRP.

“That’s not until next month,” Vadik answers.

“No, in Canada and the US it’s two weeks from now,” Jake argues around a mouthful of sunflower seeds.

“Really? Why?”

“No idea, it just is. So yeah, what are we doing for Christmas?”

“Getting hammered, we have vodka now,” Pasta grins as he tears open a can of Riga smoked sprats.

“We should do another hockey tournament,” Patrice suggests, also opening some sprats for himself. “Hey, Bruce, think we can do that?”

“You’ll have to talk to Krej, he’s the one who set up the hockey ‘schedule.’ I have enough paperwork to do,” Bruce answers.

Patrice is pretty sure that if there were doors to the cafeteria from the hall, Brad would’ve thrown them open dramatically as he came stomping in. As it is, he just starts shouting. “Distance restrictions are  _ lifted, _ baby! I’m back to a hundred percent!”

Dima and Krej follow him in, ignoring his antics and selecting their own lunches. Patrice grabs Brad on the way by and pulls his fiancé down to sit in his lap, kissing the side of Brad’s face and whispering “I’m so proud of you” in his ear. Brad stays there the entire time, and instead of getting up at least briefly for his own food he elects to steal from Patrice’s IRP instead. Patrice doesn’t mind. It’s not like they’re short of rations or anything.

“So when Dima and I were at  _ Perviy Institut _ we had a party for New Years,” Vadik remembers. “It was tiny and pathetic, so we all went to  _ Vtoroy Institut _ afterwards to join their party.”

“Will we go over for their party?” Charlie asks.

“We’ll have to ask first,” Dima replies. “And if we go, we’ll need to sacrifice most of our vodka to them. You can’t just show up to someone else’s house without gifts.”

“If we go you should let me get trashed,” Brad grins, leaning back into Patrice.

“Absolutely not. After you’re finished falling off tables you always get really handsy and we’re not allowed to be gay over there, remember?”

“Dammit.”

Patrice kisses the back of his fiancé's head and finishes his can of sprats, then looks at Charlie. “So what we did on the first mission was we took duct tape and made Christmas decorations with it, since it comes in different colors. We also cut snowflakes out of printer paper and taped them to the walls, like how kids do.”

“We should do that, then!” Charlie looks over: “Hey Z, can we have some printer paper?”

“Of course, but you must provide your own tape.”

It seems to take Charlie a second to realize Z’s kidding, then he laughs and goes back to his  _ tushenka. _

“Next year we should ask for real Christmas decorations in the supply drop ahead of time,” Backes decides. “I don’t know how that didn’t occur to us until now. And it’s not like we don’t have space for them, either, since there’s been additions made.”

“You know we could take some of those billion condoms and make them into balloons,” Jake points out.

“No, we need those for other things,” Brad snickers.

“I agree with Marchy on this one,” Charlie grins.

Tuukka says nothing, but his exaggerated eye-roll is more than enough as it is and Patrice has to stifle a laugh despite himself.

After lunch, those of them without appointed tasks for the day - Jake, Pasta, Brad and Patrice - are put on decoration detail. With green tape (why do they have so many colors of adhesive tape?) they do outlines of pine trees on walls in the cafeteria, the bunks, and their pathetic little rec area. White tape makes giant snowflakes all over the hallways, including the ceilings after Brad climbs onto Patrice’s shoulders. A strip of green and a strip of red are carefully pressed together, then lightly twisted to make a garland; they need five of these to completely surround the frame of the airlock. With red and white they put outlines of stockings on the walls next to each occupied bunk.

Despite how tiny  _ Dacha _ is, it ends up taking until dinner to finish this task, but the whole place looks brighter for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is way too short. It's because I got stuck.


	12. Third Week of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... first there is a panic attack, and later there is porn. This chapter was interesting to write.

“This is such a bad Christmas present,” Pasta complains from the back of the MPC.

“Why?” Jake asks.

“Because the shelves finished collapsing five weeks ago and it’s only _now_ I get to have replacements for them. Maybe these ones won’t be quite so shitty…”

“I like it,” Charlie decides. “I never get to do field stuff, plus now I get to do field stuff with Jake. That’s two for one, it’s a great Christmas present.”

“Yeah, why _are_ you here, Chuckie? I thought you did all the lab tech shit,” Brad wonders.

“I’m learning to do Pasta’s job just in case something happens. Redundancies, bro.”

“Oh, well, can you learn to do my job, too? Then I won’t have to keep coming back to this fucking place and almost suffocating to death.”

“You’re fine, Bradley,” Patrice tells him over the comm., resisting the urge to try and look over his shoulder at his fiancé. Not that he really could, since the back of his helmet’s in the way.

Actually, if anyone’s not fine, it’s him. His hands are sweating inside his gloves and he’s breathing a little hard for no reason. Patrice is nervous about this job, assembling more rickety shelving units in that damn outbuilding. He tries to reason with himself that they’re in an MPC, if anything does happen to Brad they can very easily evacuate back to the complex without worrying about air. But he also doesn’t want anything to happen to Brad in the first place. His fiancé has been through more than enough when it comes to that damn suit.

At the outbuilding, Patrice’s fingers tremble as he unplugs himself from the vehicle’s oxygen hookup. His legs are jelly as he climbs out, and he waits for Brad to start panicking. Except Brad seems to be doing okay, carrying around supplies and chirping back and forth with Pasta and Charlie.

It’s Jake who notices: “Bergy, you alright?”

Patrice nods, tries to swallow. His throat’s dry. Slowly he shuffles over to help unpack the shelving units. His hands don’t want to work, his legs don’t want to stand up. Brad’s over there carrying around boxes of tools, getting them out of the way. Patrice watches him, looks for signs of fear, and doesn’t find them. Why isn’t Brad scared?

His knees won’t stand. Patrice sits, pulling over a pack of materials and trying to tear it open even though his fingers are tingling and can barely move under his gloves.

A pair of dusty boots comes over - those are Brad’s boots, Patrice recognizes the scuff mark on the left toe. He grabs onto Brad’s legs and holds on, he can stop Brad from getting hurt again as long as Brad stays right here with him and doesn’t go near the toolboxes.

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, is this how Brad felt when it happened? There’s no air, it won’t find his lungs, he just needs Brad to stay over here with him, away from the outbuilding. To stay where it’s safe. Where Brad can’t get hurt.

He thinks his ears are stuffed with cotton balls, because he knows there’s noise coming from his comm. but he can’t really hear it. Patrice just stays the way he already is, clinging, anchoring Brad to this one safe spot.

Then there’s gloved hands on his arms, lightly pulling. Patrice snaps back to reality and realizes what he’s doing, immediately letting go of Brad so that Charlie and Pasta can lift him out of the dirt. Brad hugs him as soon as he’s on his feet. Patrice still can’t breathe, but he can think again. He freaked out for no reason, totally unprovoked. This has never happened to him before, and that’s scary all by itself.

“It’s okay, Pat, I’m okay, I promise,” Brad murmurs to him, making him realize that he can hear again even though he still can’t breathe. “Maybe you should just go wait over here for a minute, we got this.”

Brad puts him back in the driver’s seat of the MPC, plugging him into the oxygen hookup. Their helmet visors tap together and then Patrice is stuck watching through the window in the door as everyone else works while he sits around being useless. The only thing is he’s still linked to their collective comm.

“What was that, Marchy?” Jake wonders.

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen him freak out about something like this before.”

“Is Bergy going to be okay?” Pasta asks.

“Yeah, probably. I bet Dima will talk to him when we get back, that’s all. Guys I don’t want to talk about this, okay?” Brad sounds distressed. “He’ll be okay when we get back. That’s the important thing.”

The comm. is mostly quiet after that while they work. After a few minutes of this Patrice can finally breathe again, and as the fear trickles away it’s replaced with humiliation and shame. He was fine yesterday, why can’t he just do his job? And if he’s going to lose his mind, it would’ve been so much better for it to happen at almost any other time than this, somewhere less obvious where nobody could see it happen. Because now three of his friends and his fiancé all know that he’s less okay than he thought he was, which is something he didn’t even know for himself until just now.

Slowly, the shelves get assembled, with very little talk between the astronauts. Each unit gets slipped into the little outbuilding, then the next one is bolted together, rinse repeat. Patrice holds his breath as the toolboxes are carried back in and arranged, but the other four return to the MPC with no issues.

Pasta taps on the window: “Bergy, maybe I should drive back, huh?”

“Yeah, that might be a good idea,” he mumbles, opening the door for Pasta and then climbing into the back.

Patrice sits next to Brad, not knowing what to say about his behavior. Should he apologize for losing it and being useless, or should he say how glad he is Brad’s alright? Both of those things seem wrong. Apparently nothing needs to be said, though, because then Brad’s arm is around his shoulders, wedged between his air cylinder pack and the back of his helmet. Patrice leans into him, trying to feel him through their suits. He just really needs that right now, he needs to touch Brad. Maybe it’ll remind him that everything’s okay. At this moment, Patrice can kind of understand why his fiancé hates the pressure suits so much.

“Brad,” he whispers, not caring that three other people are on the comm., “are you okay?”

“I can’t be okay if you’re not,” Brad answers. The sides of their helmets touch with a soft _clunk._ “You know that, Pat.”

“But are you okay?” Patrice asks again. “Can you breathe? I just need to know if you can breathe.”

“Yeah, I can breathe.”

“Okay. Good.”

“What happened, Pat?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay then…” Brad squishes him in a little closer. “I love you, Pat.”

“I know, I love you too.”

Nobody says a thing the rest of the drive back. Once they’ve been deconed and gotten out of the airlock it’s the opposite of how things normally go with Brad undoing Patrice’s suit piece by piece, only pausing long enough to take off his own helmet. Meanwhile Jake and Charlie strip off their pressure suits and disappear as quickly as they can, leaving just Pasta, who vanishes shortly after as well with a promise to go find Dima for them.

Barefoot and only in his coverall, Patrice sits against the wall and hides his face with his palms, listening to Brad’s pressure suit getting shucked. “I’m sorry, Brad,” he mumbles, ashamed. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“Stop, don’t say shit like that,” his fiancé insists. Patrice’s hands are pulled away to be replaced by Brad’s, tilting his head for better eye contact. “Are you really sure you don’t know what happened?”

“Yeah, I just - I got scared for no reason, I was looking at the toolboxes and I thought something would happen to you again. It’s dumb, okay? Nothing happened. You didn’t get hurt.”

“Fuck, Pat, I wish you said something, I would’ve stayed with you in the MPC instead of going back and working if I knew.”

“No, it’s okay, that would’ve been really bad for both of us to be sitting on our asses. I don’t know why… if this was going to happen, why wasn’t it sooner? I thought I was okay…”

Both of them pull the other one in at the same time for a hug. Brad’s shoulder tucks under Patrice’s chin and he closes his eyes, holding onto his fiancé's sturdy trunk as tight as he can. It’s somehow not quite close enough, but it’s better than nothing. They stay like this, clinging to each other on the floor, until Dima shows up.

He lightly clears his throat. “If you can both come to medical for a few minutes, please?”

Patrice doesn’t want to lose the contact, but he doesn’t have much of a choice, so as they walk after Dima he puts an arm over Brad’s shoulders and squeezes. Once in the infirmary, Krej is waiting there.

“Okay, Bergy, can you tell me what it felt like?” Krej asks, reaching for his wrist to feel his pulse.

He describes it the best he can, especially the part about not being able to breathe because it seems important. Brad keeps trying to hug him as he talks, only to be pushed back out of the way by Krej. Dima takes notes as Patrice goes through everything.

“Alright, first we want you to sit,” Krej decides when he’s finished. “And yes, Marchy, you can go back to clinging to him now that I’m done.”

Brad immediately parks in a chair and glues himself to Patrice. Dima and Krej both sit as well, and Patrice kind of wonders where this is going.

“So, you’ve seen Marchy have panic attacks before,” Dima points out, “and have even described them with that term. Hopefully it won’t be surprising for you to learn that this is what happened to you this afternoon at Building 2-V. This is a response to mental trauma, you were in a similar enough situation to the incident and experienced an extreme fear reaction despite the lack of difficulties.”

“But I couldn’t breathe,” he protests.

“That’s not uncommon,” Krej explains. “It’s psychosomatic, your brain thinks something’s wrong even though it’s not and your body doesn’t know what to do with the information. It can cause respiratory distress, tremors, excessive sweating, all kinds of things. In some cases it even mimics the symptoms of a heart attack.”

Dima takes over from there. “Patrice, I have to ask you some things and I need you to be honest. Bradley has been doing check-ins after he completes a task outside the complex per his treatment plan, but I have no such baseline for you. Symptoms of trauma disorders may not appear for months or even years after an incident, and it’s important now after this panic attack for us to pay better attention to you so we can try to prevent such a disorder.”

“Don’t I have one of those?” Brad wonders.

“Technically, no, because some of the required criteria were too unclear, so you can only be labeled with an anxiety disorder that’s not otherwise specified.”

“Wait, what? When were you going to tell me about this, Brad?”

“I didn’t think I had to, you already know how fucked up I am.”

“Excuse me, that’s not our current topic of discussion,” Dima interrupts. “Like I said, I need you to answer these honestly…”

They go through a list of things, including whether Patrice has nightmares or trouble concentrating. He worries the entire time that Dima’s assessing him, that something’s really wrong with him and he’ll be evacuated. Patrice doesn’t want to leave because he loves his job, and more than that he doesn’t want to leave Brad up here. There would be nobody to check his suit for him, to give him hugs, to be his “liney” for floor hockey. Patrice knows Brad will get very lonely and sad without him, so leaving isn’t an option.

Which means that he lies.

Of course he’s stopped feeling guilty about ripping Brad’s suit by accident. Of course he understands that what happened wasn’t his fault. Patrice can’t afford to be honest. He needs to stay here, because if he doesn’t he knows Brad won’t be okay.

When he’s done bullshitting Dima, Patrice goes with Brad to sit by the airlock because it’s almost time for dinner and nobody will be there.

Brad grabs his shoulders and makes it impossible to refuse eye contact: “Pat, I know you’re not okay.”

“You’ve lied on psych evals before,” he points out. “I don’t want to get sent back, I can’t just leave you here by yourself… it’s not that big of a deal. I’ll figure something out, I can keep this from happening again.”

“You know Dima’s not stupid, right? I’m pretty sure he knows you were leaving stuff out. Maybe they can turn you into an experiment, too. Then you won’t have to go.”

Despite the awkward positioning of sitting on the floor, Patrice configures them so that he can lean his face into his fiancé's chest. He closes his eyes and pays attention to the strong thudding of Brad’s heartbeat, trying to block out the rest of his surroundings. All he’s interested in is this, knowing that Brad’s alive and unhurt.

“So tell me about your anxiety problem.”

“Okay.” Brad hugs him, pulling him in close and then rearranging them so that they’re lying on the floor instead of sitting. “Dima said there was three things that were too ambiguous, or something. I can’t remember what they were, but if I had just three more things than I did, it would’ve been PTSD. But it’s not, because there’s three things missing. Which is good, I guess. He said anxiety is easier for me, there’s a lot less convincing he’ll have to do to make Roscosmos not boot my ass off this mission.” Brad pauses for a second, then gets quiet. “It seems kind of stupid that you have to have the same problems that I do, and - okay that came out wrong. I wish you didn’t have to freak out earlier. It’s not fair.”

“What if I’m broken?” he whispers. Patrice doesn’t mean for that to come out of his mouth, it just does. “I can’t let this happen again.”

“You’re not broken, Pat.”

“But what if I am? What if I just lose my mind out there one day? I’ll have to give up my career, Roscosmos won’t let me come back. I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t be an astronaut anymore.”

“You’re not broken,” Brad insists, playing with his hair. “You’re perfect.” He shuffles a little and kisses Patrice’s forehead. “I’m hungry, do you want dinner?”

“No. I don’t really want to see anyone right now… they’ll all ask questions, and I don’t feel like talking about this with them.” Patrice doesn’t add that he’s also not interested in anyone even looking at him right now. He doesn’t know where this feeling comes from, that he’s something terrible to be stared at because he couldn’t do his job this afternoon. Patrice just wants to stay like this, feeling Brad breathing against him.

“So you said something about the toolboxes.”

“Oh. I don’t know, watching you carry them around freaked me out. I was scared your suit would rip again.”

“Yeah but how would that even happen? And it wasn’t the toolbox that did it, there was that one shelf that snapped off and the corner was sharp.”

“I know, this wasn’t… logical or anything. I just got scared.”

“It’s probably really bad for both of us to be scared of my suit ripping, Pat.”

“Yeah.” He nuzzles closer. “You did so good, though. You saw me freaking out but you didn’t freak out too, you just got back to work.”

“I wish I didn’t do that, though. If I knew you were having a panic attack I would’ve stayed and sat with you until you felt better.”

It’s a little comforting, Patrice decides, that switching places like this Brad handles it really well. He’s doing his best to try and fix things now that Patrice is the one having a hard time, he’s managing to stay calm and not make it about him. Patrice will have to tell Brad later how much he appreciates it, and how he didn’t know he could love Brad more than he already did but somehow it’s happening that way.

“Brad?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I know, I love you so much.” Brad squeezes him a little. “Hey, what’s the thing that bugged you the most?”

“What?”

“When I… when the thing happened. What was the worst part?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Please just answer.”

“The worst thing was…” Patrice thinks. Everything about it was bad, he has a hard time picking just one thing. “The worst thing was when they put you in quarantine.” He swallows. He tries really hard not to remember this, and usually he succeeds. “The best way to bring up body temperature is through skin contact, and I know how much you like to be touched anyway. I just wanted to go in with you so I could make you warm again, but Krej wouldn’t let me.”

“Okay, good, I can totally work with that.” Brad gets them both up. “I have an idea, come on.” They go to the bunks and Brad makes Patrice lie down, then grabs the blanket off his and tucks the edge under the mattress so it hangs down like a curtain. They snuggle up on Patrice’s bunk under the bedding, obscured by Brad’s blanket and pressed together chest to chest. Brad unzips his coverall and moves Patrice’s hands into his undershirt. “See? I’m warm.”

Patrice slides his palms along Brad’s skin, feeling soft hair and strong muscles and body heat. He ducks his head a little and kisses Brad, shifting just a little so their noses are tucked side-by-side instead of pressed together. Brad’s fingers are busy opening his coverall for him, and some shuffling takes place to get it off his arms and shoulders. It’s shoved down to about mid-thigh before Brad gives up and starts hugging him instead.

Patrice pulls back slightly, just enough to be able to talk. “I think we have to get up for a second.”

“Yeah, I wanted to not have to do that,” Brad grumbles.

They climb out of Patrice’s bunk, careful not to pull down the blanket, and shuck everything but their boxers. Patrice gets back in and a few seconds after Brad joins him, pulling the bedclothes over both of them with the hand not holding onto the supplies. Patrice probably should’ve guessed that’s where this is going, but he doesn’t mind. It’ll get him to stop overthinking for a few minutes, and better yet they’re not crammed into a shower stall for once. He wonders which size of condom Brad grabbed, and then they’re kissing so he stops caring. He’ll be fine either way.

Brad’s hand slides under his waistband, wrapping around and stroking him to hardness. Patrice keeps feeling Brad, touching every inch of skin he can reach. He focuses on that, how his fiancé is getting warm from arousal, and it helps him relax a little more since it’s impossible for Brad to be cold right now.

So interested in touching Brad, Patrice is briefly startled when everything shuffles and his boxers are pulled off. The blanket and top sheet are bunched by his feet while Brad rips the top off a lube packet. Clear jelly onto fingers, then those fingers are touching Patrice, circling and teasing and sliding in only a little at first. He closes his eyes, sinks into his bunk. Lets himself just feel for a minute. Brad’s so good at this, slowly and patiently adding more until he’s thoroughly slippery. Patrice opens his eyes again and looks just in time to see Brad’s underwear come off and get balled up in the corner of the bunk. The condom goes on, the remaining lube is squeezed onto it from the packet.

Brad gently pushes his knees up, then settles between his legs and slides in. Patrice’s eyes roll closed and he breathes in sharply through his nose at the sensation, not thinking and just enjoying the slick glide of the motion. His fiancé stays there for a few seconds, long enough to lightly kiss both his cheeks and then his forehead. They’ve just barely started and already the only things in Patrice’s mind are that it feels good and that he loves Brad.

For all that he talks the rest of the time, Brad’s not especially verbal during sex aside from moans and whimpers. Patrice was really surprised to learn that the first time. Right now, he has just enough brain power to be happy about it, because it means he doesn’t have to say anything back. He just moves responsively, twitching and breathing unevenly at each pulse of bliss that Brad sends through him. Brad holds him the whole time, going back and forth between gasping in his ear and kissing the side of his jaw and neck.

Patrice whimpers when Brad’s hand finds its way between them to start stroking him again. Brad is touching him, Brad is in him, Brad is the only thing he can see or feel. He’s going to come.

“Brad I’m gonna…” Patrice cuts himself off with a moan as his fiancé hits him just _there,_ keep doing that, that’s perfect…

“Good,” Brad breathes, moving a little more purposefully. “Do it, I wanna feel you…”

It doesn’t take too long before his muscles lock and he comes all over both their stomachs and Brad’s hand, giving a long whine while he does. After a few seconds Patrice can feel Brad trembling, and then his fiancé is lying on him despite the mess. Both of them are boneless for a moment, but while Patrice stays that way Brad’s able to start moving again eventually. He watches his fiancé fall off the bunk and pull down the blanket in the process, then stumble around pulling boxers and undershirt back on. He also remembers why they usually do this in the shower, because they’re both sticky and disgusting now.

Brad reads his mind. “Let’s go clean this up…”

Patrice is shaky from his brain chemistry going berserk, but he manages to also partially dress so they can get to the showers. Taking their shirts back off again is a little bit of an ordeal, but eventually they figure out that they should roll up from the bottom so the gross part is more or less contained. Everything gets tossed in the laundry bucket and then they’re under the water, soaping each other and occasionally kissing.

“I bet if we go eat after this nobody will be there,” Brad murmurs while rubbing shampoo into Patrice’s hair. “Z and Pasta are playing Team Russia tonight, so they’ll all be off doing that in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” he nods, relishing in the fingertips massaging his scalp.

“It’ll be all romantic and shit, too,” Brad grins. “Just the two of us with some _tushenka_ and fish jerky.”

“We’ll have to find some candles,” Patrice chuckles before sticking his head into the spray. He starts soaping Brad’s hair when he’s finished rinsing off. “Or maybe we can take one of those flashlights and point it up to the ceiling, it’ll be kind of like a candle.”

Brad’s arms slide around Patrice’s neck, pulling him in for a long kiss. Every time they kiss, it makes Patrice feel like a more complete person… and once they separate again Brad gets suds in his eyes, ruining the moment. Even through the sting he’s laughing about it, and that makes Patrice laugh, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Intrepid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odddreamsofdoom/pseuds/Intrepid) for helping me write this particular piece of smut, because I struggled a little with the idea of "comfort sex" and he was good enough to help me make sense of it :)
> 
> At random, I at one point looked up the DSM-5 criteria for PTSD and completely by accident both of these two meet most of them. However I've decided not to do that because it would ruin the tone of the fic. So, instead, Bergy will just have a milder version of Marchy's "anxiety disorder not-otherwise-specified" and will probably get over it sooner.


	13. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter with minimal angst. (Don't get used to it.)

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Patrice whispers through his smile.

“Someday when you have children, you’ll do this again,” Z answers, equally quiet.

“How did you keep everything secret?”

“I pretended it was lab materials, Tuuks has his own set of supplies and he’s the only one who would usually look. It wasn’t hard.”

They finish packing the treats into plastic specimen bags, then write everyone’s name on stickers to label the small packages. Each one is then set on the table in front of the chair where the recipient most often sits to eat breakfast, along with a small stack of letters. Z had put in his supply request three months ago for this: candy and cookies, enough for the whole team to have about one hundred grams of each, and then letters from family for the holidays. They weren’t able to do this on the first mission, so it’ll be a huge surprise when everyone wakes up.

“So, I must now discuss something with you, Bergy.” Z motions for Patrice to do a walk-and-talk with him and they leave the cafeteria. “I feel you may need a more objective take on the issue you’ve recently started having, since Marchy and Dima are much too close to it.”

“Oh, Z, thanks, but-”

“Stop, please. Remember I’m trying to help you.”

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“I remember the end of July, how you asked everyone to wear suits in solidarity with Marchy during that part of his healing process. I also recall Dima learning of his boyfriend’s injuries. Both times, when one of us is suffering, the rest of the team has stepped up to offer love and support. So I’d like to know why, in the last week and a half, you’ve been refusing to eat most of your meals with us. Do you really think that having a panic attack makes you so awful that you don’t deserve to be seen?”

Patrice doesn’t really know what to say to that for several long, embarrassing minutes. He’s about to finally open his mouth and talk when a light is flicked on and he realizes he’s been taken into the lab, which at one in the morning is deserted for obvious reasons. Z indicates for him to sit in a chair by the desk.

“I just didn’t know that I wasn’t okay,” Patrice admits, looking at the floor. “I did fine when I was on restrictions, and I did fine when I was off them but Brad still couldn’t go outside, and I did fine when Brad was allowed to start doing his job again. It was just - it was really sudden and I didn’t know what was happening to me. I’m not used to being the one who’s in trouble.”

“I see,” Z nods. “And again I have to ask you, why does this make you so terrible? It’s very understandable that you may be anxious about Marchy having another incident, he’s had two already and his problems may feed your problems. You think of him being scared and it makes you scared, yes?”

“Yeah, sometimes. I hate it when he’s scared, because he shouldn’t have to be. How many astronauts have you met who are scared to wear space suits? It seems really unfair.”

“Would it surprise you to know that I don’t like to wear those suits?”

Patrice feels his eyebrows go up against his will. “Um, yes, actually.”

Z smiles, very patient and kind. “I don’t like them very much. Mine had to be specially designed, because I’m too tall, and the measurements aren’t quite right in spots. It’s very uncomfortable to move in a certain way, and makes it so I’m unable to drive vehicles or pilot a shuttle. I’ve read other stories, too, other astronauts - one had claustrophobia and sometimes wearing his suit was a challenge. Wasn’t this also Marchy’s original problem before the first incident?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“So you see, it’s not such a strange problem. Probably you’d like to remember that later, so you can share it with him. But I also think - no, I _know,_ that you still fault yourself for Marchy getting hurt.”

“I know it was already ripped, but I made it bigger,” Patrice explains. “I should’ve stopped and looked, and he wouldn’t have lost all his air. We could’ve gotten back here right away and he wouldn’t have frozen.”

“A broken shelf was stabbing him in the shoulder. Why could it be a good idea to wait before pulling it out? If you left it in too long, he may have gotten an infection instead. That would be so much worse than what happened, don’t you think? Yes, he suffered from cold, and yes, he was quarantined. But he recovered fully. An infection is more difficult, especially from something up here. It’s much more likely that an infection can kill someone since the antibiotics may not work. You can’t prefer that option.”

Okay, no, he wouldn’t prefer that. “What would you do if you were there?” he asks.

“The exact same thing you did. Anyone anywhere would do the exact same thing. Bergy, please look at me when I’m speaking to you - _you did the right thing._ Okay?”

Patrice nods. Dima said that to him, too, back when it first happened. Patrice didn’t believe him. Brad’s said it a bunch of times, too, and Patrice never believed him, either. He doesn’t know why it makes a difference that it’s Z saying it now. But Patrice believes him. A hole fills in, somewhere, and shedding the idea of himself being responsible for that terrible episode feels good the same way taking off wet clothes does.

“Did you talk to Brad about this, too?”

“Yes, quite a few times.” Z doesn’t sound pleased with that fact. “He doesn’t hear anything that I try to tell him, the same as how he can’t hear Krej or Dima… or you. Marchy’s problem is more difficult than yours, it may not be completely fixable. I know how much you love him, Bergy, and of course you want to help him get better. But sometimes you need to step back from him for a few minutes and remember that it isn’t your fault for him being that way. You should do your best to not let yourself get anxious simply because he is anxious. And when we go home, for the next buffer year after that, he should have outside help. He can’t deal with this on his own and you can’t deal with it for him either.”

Patrice nods. “Okay, I’ll do my best.” Then he yawns. “Z, can we talk about this more when it’s not a time that we’re supposed to be sleeping?”

Z yawns himself, then chuckles. “I suppose that’s not so unreasonable.”

They both walk silently back to the bunks and Patrice waits until he’s in his before taking off his socks, balling them up and tossing them in a random direction before squirming out of his coverall. He can hear Brad snoring lightly from above, which makes him smile - his fiancé is noisy at everything else, so why not be loud at sleeping, too? At least every other night they cram together on Patrice’s bunk to sleep, but thankfully he managed to convince Brad not to do that tonight, otherwise it would’ve been impossible to sneak off to the cafeteria and help Z.

Patrice is sliding away towards the subconscious when he’s jolted back to reality by getting shoved all the way into the wall. He startles so hard that he sits up and whacks his forehead into the bottom of Brad’s bunk, but at least everything’s so sudden that he forgets to yell out in pain. Instead he rubs his face and discovers that, of course, it’s Brad.

“Why did you wake me up?” he asks in the softest whisper possible.

“You were too far away and I missed you. Go back to sleep, Pat.”

As soon as Patrice lays down Brad wraps around him from the side, using an arm and a leg to cling the same way an octopus grabs something with its tentacles. Patrice resigns himself to his fiancé's clingy behavior and relaxes, letting his eyes close again and finally, _finally_ drifting off.

And then Brad’s dragging him out of bed by his shirt. “Pat get up!”

“Huh?” He rubs his eyes with his fingertips but can’t actually open them yet. “Brad, come on, you did this last night too-”

“There’s cookies!” his fiancé yells, way too close to his face for that volume not to hurt. “We’re eating cookies for breakfast!”

And then Brad’s dragging him down the hall in just his undershirt and boxers to the cafeteria, where everyone else is already tearing open their letters and eating candy in place of real food… everyone except Vadik and Dima, mostly because Dima is being stopped by Vadik.

“Christmas isn’t for two more weeks for us,” Vadik insists, and even half-awake Patrice can tell it’s just in the interest of driving the other cosmonaut insane.

“I got one from Ilya, if you don’t let me open it now I’m going to murder you in your sleep and nobody will find your body,” Dima threatens before yanking free and ripping open the envelope.

Patrice blearily realizes that Z, Vadik and Tuukka are the only ones who actually bothered to get dressed, so it’s not just him sitting here in his underwear. He eats a cookie and looks over his own letters: one from his parents, one from his brother, one from his _grand-mère._ One from Brad’s parents, too, which he probably should’ve expected. There’s no way for him to send letters back, of course, but as he munches absently on a cookie and reads, he wishes that he could. All of them but the one from Lynn and Kevin are in French, which is such a nice change from Russian or even English. Russian is still a little bit of a strain and even after however many years now he’s sometimes annoyed by how stupid English spelling is, so getting to read in French is a treat sweeter than even the confectionaries he’s been gifted.

“Hey, Pat, I can’t read this,” Brad interrupts, shoving something over.

Ah, so apparently his parents wrote to his fiancé, too. And seemed to have forgotten that Brad doesn’t speak French.

“‘Dear Bradley,’” he translates, “‘we hope you’re doing well this Christmas. Your mother called and said they would write Patrice, so we thought it would be nice if we wrote you, too.’ Oh, okay, I didn’t know your mom is friends with my mom… ‘They said you can’t write back, but that’s alright, it means you’ll have plenty of stories for everyone when you get back and come to the lake with us again. We also want you to know that-’ Oh my god, mom, you did _not_ write that.”

“What? What does it say?” Brad demands.

Patrice rolls his eyes. “‘We also want you to know that your pathetic Bruins have been getting thrashed lately, which is exactly what they deserve.’ Christ. Just remember, that’s not about you, they’re also mad at me for being a Boston sports fan. ‘Besides your terrible taste in hockey teams, we still love you both. Try not to eat too many candies at once this Christmas, and please also be responsible with your drinking at New Years if they let you have alcohol up there. It will still be awhile before we get to see you again, so we wish you the best for the coming year and we hope you’re enjoying your mission. Love, hugs, and kisses.’ Okay, so that’s mostly pretty nice.” Patrice hands it back. “And I agree with her about the candy _and_ the booze. Stop eating cookies, Bradley, you need to have real food, too.”

“It’s Christmas, and that means I have candy for breakfast,” Brad insists stubbornly, stuffing a fistful into his mouth only to spit them out a second later so he can unwrap them.

Backes and Z pass around pictures of their wives and kids, while Vadik passes around only photos of his kids and won’t let them see the ones of his wife. “It must be spank-bank material,” Pasta guesses.

Vadik grins savagely. “Dima got some, too. Are you going to show us your gorgeous man, Dimochka?”

“No,” Dima answers, stuffing his pictures back into their envelope and folding it closed. “Nobody gets to see.” He’s not red, though, and obviously not embarrassed. Instead he looks distressed, and Patrice guesses that those pictures mean Dima finally saw the burns for himself.

Apparently Vadik realizes this too, because he leaves Dima alone about it after that. Tuukka, on the other hand, isn’t his usual vaguely-murderous self and seems to be actually enjoying the morning as he shows off a crayon drawing from one of his daughters: in the top corner is a little red ball with a space man standing on it, waving down to where three stick-figures in dresses are waving back while standing on a green line (probably grass) with a purple house next to them.

When everyone’s done gorging on sugar, Z informs them that work is suspended for the day and there will be a football match by the airlock after lunch. “Besides those things,” he smiles, “Vadik and I have been in contact with _Vtoroy Institut,_ and they said that in six days we may join their New Years party on the condition we bring at least five liters of vodka with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going up a little early because I have to post part 6 of a series on the same day and since this fic (and this series) is generally speaking less popular, I want the other one to be at the top of the list under the Marcheron tag.


	14. New Years

“Okay, so everyone remember that this picnic isn’t a real picnic,” Bruce reminds them at breakfast. “Except for me, we’ll get to play some football with the cosmonauts, so try not to be too big of an embarrassment.” They all chuckle. “According to the chief scientist of _Vtoroy Institut,_ they’re having us borrow rebreather canisters for this football match, which supplement the air cylinders and give an additional three and a half hours of breathable oxygen. Yeryemenko also said that after this football match we’ll go back for dinner and then the party. Now, Chuckie, Brusky, Marchy, Bergy… you guys know the drill. No hugging, kissing, any of that. I know it sucks to hear, but that needs to wait until you get back, because these guys are under Vladimir’s thumb and they _will_ report you for it. That also means you can’t get shit-faced, okay? Especially you, Marchy, I’ve heard stories.”

Brad makes a face around the cookie he stole from Patrice. “But Russians get mad when you won’t get sloshed with them,” he argues once he’s done swallowing it whole.

“Actually, we don’t, it’s more like we get surprised,” Vadik informs him with a smile. “It was weird for me the first time I was with an international team, nobody but us was drinking so much. When I asked why, the guy asked _me_ why I did it so much. Until I was on an international team it just didn’t occur to me that other cultures are confused by vodka.”

“Oh, well then,” Brad snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Alright, guys, enough. Marchy, I’m serious, okay? We don’t want you getting yourself in trouble by accident over there. Krej?”

“Yeah. Medical stuff for this morning: Chuckie, you’re due for a heart checkup, so we’ll just knock that out before we go. Tuuks, you’re with Backy for the chemical burn. Bergy and Marchy, you get to hang out with Dima all morning for your psych stuff.”

Bruce nods. “Alright. We’re going for the picnic in a few minutes. Z, you’re in charge of the presents.”

“Bradley, stop eating my cookies.”

“But you’re not eating them!”

“I was trying to save them, it’s not my fault you ate all of yours at once and then threw up fifteen minutes later.”

“That was because of the candy actually.”

Patrice rolls his eyes and finds that there’s only one cookie left, ignoring the last third of the one Brad just took. He grabs it from the bag as his fiancé finishes off the other one, but caves at the sulky look he gets and breaks it in half so they can share it.

After breakfast, they head for the infirmary - Krej listens to Charlie’s heart and sets him up for an ECG, Backes puts a new silicone plaster over the reagent burn on Tuukka’s wrist, Dima looks for his clipboard. Brad and Patrice take their usual seats at Dima’s desk in preparation.

“Alright, who wants to go first?”

“I will,” Patrice decides.

“Good. How have your dreams been the last couple of nights?”

“What? I don’t know, I don’t really remember my dreams… I think… Brad painted the visor of Pasta’s helmet black for some reason, I think it was as a prank. Then Pasta tied him up in a sheet and left him on a chair in the rec area.”

“That’s very good, nightmares and insomnia are something we need to watch out for. This doesn’t sound like anything too out of the ordinary. And right now, how do you feel about leaving the complex for the picnic? How do you feel about the integrity of Marchy’s pressure suit?”

“I’ll be okay. I always do a check of everything anyway to help him feel better.”

“I see. Tell me, what if you find something?”

“I won’t,” Patrice insists. He doesn’t want to talk about this. “There’s nothing wrong with it, I check it every time.”

Dima frowns. “Please answer the question, Patrice.”

“If I find something wrong I’ll get it fixed.”

“Fine. On a scale, one to ten with ten being the most, how much do you still blame yourself for Marcy’s suit ripping?”

“Two,” he lies. It’s actually nine.

“Bergy why can’t you just be truthful with me?” Dima sighs.

“Fine, it’s a six.”

“Alright, we’ll talk about that more tomorrow. In the last four days, have you been having ‘negative affect?’ This would be things like anger, disgust, guilt, fear, nervousness… do you have any of those feelings lately?”

“That’s vague.”

“Okay, particularly when you think of Bradley in his suit near Building 2-V or Building 2-A, are you nervous or scared? Do you think you might cause something else to happen to him there? That sort of negative affect. Please, answer honestly.”

Patrice thinks for a second. “A little. I don’t like thinking about it… I know how much it scares him and that scares me a little, too.”

“Alright. And you don’t have problems with losing interest, right? You’re still alright with the work you do during the day, you feel good about it when you complete tasks?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Good, very good. Now… for several days before Christmas, you would avoid the cafeteria and the rec areas. You seem to be participating in social moments with your colleagues again, but do you still feel like you should be away from them at all? It’s alright if you say yes, it would be perfectly understandable.”

“Not as much as I did at first… Z talked to me, and that helped. I still don’t feel good about having a panic attack on a field assignment.”

“Alright, last thing. You haven’t been having trouble focusing, have you? You’re not distracted during tasks by unpleasant thoughts or memories?”

“No, I’m fine with that.”

“Good. So there’s some things we’ll have to talk about later, but you don’t seem terribly anxious today.” Dima flips to a clean page on his clipboard. “And now you, Marchy.”

Brad’s answers are much more concerning than Patrice’s, but he’s also asked for more detail on a lot of things. For one, last night he had a bad dream where the scar on his shoulder covered his entire arm and chest instead of being a small light-pink line but nobody else could see it and kept insisting he was okay. He woke up having a panic attack but is proud of himself for not thrashing around and waking up Patrice.

Patrice, listening to this, wishes Brad _did_ wake him up, because maybe then he could’ve helped.

“And how about this football match? You’ll be running around in your suit for a couple of hours, will you be alright with that?”

“They’re giving us extra air, plus there won’t be anything sharp… if I start to freak out or whatever, I’ll just tell Pat and then go sit down.”

“No, Marchy, you must come tell me about it if that happens,” Dima insists gently. “It’s detailed that way in your treatment plan. If you need to sit out, I can get you immediately pulled and brought to _Vtoroy Institut_ where you can doff your suit and relax for a few minutes. This is part of my job, I’m assigned to care for your mental health.”

“Okay.”

“Alright. I’ll clear you for the picnic, Marchy, but the second you start to have problems, you must come get me for help. If you don’t, it’s very likely both of us will be punished. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Brad nods, obviously not happy about that.

“Alright. You may both go to get ready, and once we’re back you must come speak with me again, this technically speaking counts as a field assignment so there must be an assessment.”

Leaving Dima’s office, Patrice holds Brad’s hand and Brad’s squeezing back way too hard. Everyone else is hanging out in the cafeteria or by the airlock, so he leads his fiancé to the tiny rec area so they can sit on the couch.

Patrice puts both palms on Brad’s shoulders to ground him. “What’s wrong?”

“My stupid nightmare,” Brad grumbles, unzipping his coverall and yanking the collar of his undershirt to the side so that the scar is visible. “I kept looking at it when I was getting dressed today, how long until it goes away?”

“It might not ever go away,” Patrice warns him. “Scars will shrink and get pale, but most of the time they won’t disappear completely. Didn’t Backy tell you that?”

“Maybe. I only listened to half the shit he told me while I was stuck in the box.”

Patrice shifts his left hand so that his thumb can brush along the raised pink stripe. “You know who doesn’t get scars after they’re injured?”

“Who?”

“Dead people. Scars mean you lived, Brad. I like your scar. Because it means we got you back in time and you didn’t get an infection, you lived and it healed over. Those are all good things. Scars are good. I’ll take the scar because it means I get to keep you.”

“But it shouldn’t be there at all… it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“But it did happen. It happened and you’re still here to talk about it.” Patrice raises his hands, now, so that they’re on either side of Brad’s face. “What if I got a scar somewhere? Would you say the same thing about that, that it’s not supposed to be there? Or would you be ridiculous like you always are and tell me over and over again that scars just make me look sexier?”

Brad very obviously tries not to grin, but fails. He snickers a little. “Literally anything can make you sexier, Pat.”

He smiles. “Exactly. So it shouldn’t be that hard to believe that having one small scar on your shoulder doesn’t make you ugly to me.”

Patrice leans in and kisses Brad, who tastes a little bit like the cookies from earlier. Patrice shifts him around and bends him back so they’re more or less horizontal and sinking into the couch, despite it being too short even for Brad to lie on without his legs hanging off the end. Physical comfort is so important in their relationship because Brad loves to be touched, and Patrice will never get tired of that, of holding him and kissing him and anchoring him to whichever world they’re standing on.

And then there’s the unmistakable sound of Tuukka angrily clearing his throat at them. “Shouldn’t you both be putting on your suits? Everyone else is heading over to do that right now.”

Patrice slowly pulls away and sighs quietly. “Yeah, probably.”

Brad grumbles a little. “Why do you always have to ruin private moments, Tuuks?”

“Maybe because you have your ‘private moments’ out in places where anyone can walk in and see you, Marchy.”

They climb off the couch and head for the airlock, where everyone except Backes and Charlie have gathered and are donning their pressure suits. Patrice doesn’t even have a second to question that before he gets his answer.

“But maybe I should stay here and cheer him up,” Jake offers, looking between Z and Bruce.

“You’ll be sitting here in an empty complex,” Pasta interrupts.

“What were the symptoms?” Vadik wonders.

“Tachycardia and dyspnea, which he conveniently kept forgetting to tell me about,” Krej answers with an eye-roll. “Then he got lightheaded and almost fell off the cot during the ECG. Backy’s going to supervise him until we get back, because then he’ll have fasted long enough that we can put him under and do the procedure.”

“I thought they sent you the kit as a precaution in case it got worse.”

“Well, either it did get worse or he’s been lying for weeks. Brusky, did he mention any of this to you?”

“Well, he would always lie down for awhile after we… um, and sometimes if we’re sitting together he’ll lean on me suddenly. I thought he just wanted to snuggle up on the couch.”

“Yeah. See? This qualifies as ‘worse,’” Krej decides.

Vadik shrugs. “Alright. I’m not a medical worker, I’m a health physicist. I don’t always know these things.”

“Holy shit, Chuckie’s going under the knife?” Brad questions as he opens his wall locker to grab his suit.

“It’s technically a minor procedure, we do it laparoscopically,” Krej explains. “Okay, actually, Backy will be the one doing everything, I’m just assisting.”

Dima speaks up, now. “It could be a good idea for Brusky to stay here, actually. So long as he’s quiet and behaves himself, if he sits with Chuckie while they’re waiting for the procedure it should help improve the patient’s mood and give a better outcome.”

Krej shrugs. “Okay. Can you behave yourself, Brusky?”

“Yeah, I won’t get in Backy’s way, I promise.”

“Alright, go.”

Jake all but sprints away from the airlock so he can be with his boyfriend in the infirmary. Patrice, for some stupid reason, is relieved that it’s not just him and Brad dealing with medical issues no matter how bad he feels about Jake and Charlie having to go through something like this. Of course Vadik is shamelessly scribbling in that notebook of his before sticking it into a plastic bag to protect it from decon liquid. Even knowing what Vadik’s job is on this mission, he still finds it a little morbid.

Patrice tries to focus after that, cramming into the pressure suit before more or less dressing Brad in his and triple-checking every joint and connection. Like always, he kisses Brad before snapping down the helmet. The thing is, Brad tends to do better in groups than if he’s on an assignment as part of a pair or a trio, or at least that seems to be the most recent trend. So with nine of them about to pile through the airlock and into an MPC, he’s perfectly calm and stable, which is relieving for Patrice. It means he can just sit and relax on the ride over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to skip the picnic because otherwise this chapter would've been a million pages long, and also super boring. It pretty much consisted of them hanging out outside their complexes just because, then a soccer match, then all of them going to Second Institute for food and vodka. Not exciting, especially since Brad's not allowed to get drunk.
> 
> Let it also be known that this is the last chapter that's free of any major angst for awhile.


	15. First Week of January - Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm exhausted from using an entire hour of free skate learning to move backwards (and still falling too often while doing so) so this is going up a couple hours early.

“Bergy, you coming or what?”

“Yeah, give me a couple minutes,” he calls back before heading for medical. Krej and Backes decided yesterday night that they were too tired to do the procedure, so it’s happening this morning instead and he wants to run over and see Charlie and Jake real quick before Charlie goes under the knife.

“It’s just a little thing the size of an Advil,” Charlie’s saying as Patrice comes over. “They showed it to me, it’s tiny.”

“They’re literally going to stuff something into your heart, babe. I get to be nervous about that.”

Charlie grins. “I’ve had heart procedures before, I’ll be fine.” He notices Patrice and his head rolls against the pillow to look better. “Hey, Bergy.”

“Hey, Chuckie… sounds like you feel pretty good about this,” he smiles.

“Yeah, it’s cool. Backy’s a good surgeon, that reagent burn Tuuks had on his arm didn’t even scar or anything.”

“He’s _really_ good,” Patrice agrees, nodding. “He did Brad’s shoulder, too, there’s barely even a scar.”

Krej joins them, fixing a fresh bag of something onto Charlie’s IV. “Just a few more minutes, Backy’s almost done setting up…”

“What’s going to happen when he goes in?” Jake wonders, clearly trying to sound less nervous than he feels.

“There’s medication in his fluid line to help him relax, so we’ll have him lie down on the table and then he’ll fall asleep a few seconds after that. The anesthesia gets turned on, so I pay attention to that and hand Backy stuff when he asks for it. There’s going to be a tiny hole between two of his ribs where the instrument goes in, but it’s so small you probably couldn’t even fit a pen through it. The implant gets placed, the hole is closed up, and we’ll have him back out here in probably an hour and a half. You can keep sitting with him until he wakes up again.”

“Cool,” Charlie mumbles, somehow slurring a little even though it’s just one word. His eyes are drooping already. “Hey Krej, how come you don’t cut instead?”

“Because my specialty is emergency medicine, Chuck. I’m not a chop-doc like Backy is.”

“Oh. Okay. Man this shit’s like… really good vodka… feel heavy and stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s supposed to happen,” Krej chuckles. “Alright, we’re moving now.” He presses his foot on the pedal of the gurney and starts rolling Charlie in the direction of the small operating room, which is right next to the quarantine box but can’t be seen into from the outside.

“Break a leg, Krej,” Patrice offers, watching them go. He reaches out and squeezes Jake’s shoulder, hopefully supportive. “He’ll be fine, I bet he’ll be out here with you again before me and Pasta get back from our assignment.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Bergy.”

He leaves the infirmary after that and heads for the airlock, secretly glad that Brad isn’t needed for this job. As always the damn oxygen garden sensors are on the fritz, which is how both assignments leading to the rippings of Brad’s pressure suit started, but if Brad doesn’t go with them he can’t be hurt. He’ll be safely lazing around the rec area, watching the same movie for the two dozenth time and not paying attention to it because he’s too bored. Patrice much prefers that to his fiancé suffering another panic attack or, god forbid, a third incident.

“It’s always the same sensor,” Pasta explains as they’re donning their suits. “So, we now get to check the connections in the cable pipe. There’s an access point every hundred meters… so over ten kilometers, that’s like a hundred that need to be checked. We can’t get this done in one day unless we find it right away.”

“Maybe if we had help…”

“What help? Brusky’s tied up in medical and no way in hell would Marchy be able to do this without someone looking over his shoulder the whole time.”

Unfortunately, that’s a good point. Patrice frowns to himself as he positions his helmet and it clicks into place. He reaches behind his head and pulls the free end of the hose until it connects with the snap-joint on the back of his helmet, then taps the button on his shoulder regulator to start air flow before clomping into the airlock after Pasta.

“And it’s not the sensor itself?”

“Dude, that’s literally the first thing I checked.”

The airlock folds open and they’re immediately blasted with sand.

“Oh, fuck, not this again,” Patrice groans. “I hope this isn’t one of those ones that lasts the entire year…”

“So a fun job just got even more fun,” Pasta remarks sarcastically. “I hate dust storms… why couldn’t it happen next week?”

“Because that wouldn’t massively inconvenience us and potentially put our lives in danger.”

They turn on the worthless headlamps that are built into their helmets, then head for the outbuilding to grab glow sticks and thermite flares. Following the conduit to the oxygen garden and back is fine normally, but during a dust storm (where they’re being pelted with sand at sixty kilometers an hour and virtually all the light from the sun is completely blocked out) it’s easy to get disoriented and the conduit branches off at points to various small solar farms. This makes Patrice even more guiltily relieved that Brad’s not on this assignment, because if his fiancé ended up having a panic attack in these conditions it’d be difficult and dangerous to evacuate him back to _Dacha._

The conditions aren’t anywhere near minimum visibility yet, but within an hour they might be swamped in a blanket of sky-choking dust, so as they ride along on the ATV Pasta spears down a glow stick every twenty feet or so. They’re going to have to go back and get more at some point, but they have enough to check the first couple access points. A two-day job looks a lot closer to a five-day job, now, and the visibility will only get worse by the hour. They could be blacked out for months.

“How long will it probably take for you to check everything?”

“Probably like ten minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll drive to the next one and put down more spikes,” Patrice decides.

He climbs back onto the ATV and snaps the rest of the glow sticks, placing them up to the next access point and going back to where Pasta is. He remembers back to the first time he had to go on a field assignment during a dust storm - he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it, not just because it was his first dust storm but also because it happened a week and a half before he almost suffocated. There were dust storms before that, but he never had to go outside during them until that point. It wasn’t a really bad one, either, it only lasted a few days, but he had to go with Brad to fix two separate rovers that both got flipped off their tracks and broken by the high-speed winds. It was their last field assignment together before Brad started to be scared of everything, and that… makes him suddenly feel really, really sad.

It’s sad that an astronaut, a very competent and experienced astronaut, is afraid to wear a space suit. It’s sad that Brad, despite Dima’s and Patrice’s best efforts, seems to be slowly losing his ability to do his job. It’s sad that Patrice knows, deep down in a horrible dark part of him that he can never admit to out loud, his fiancé won’t be able to come back here after this mission.

“Bergy, come on, let’s go!” Pasta shouts suddenly.

“Huh?”

“I don’t feel like sitting out here wasting air, let’s get to the next access point.”

Patrice drives them the hundred meters to where the glow sticks end, dropping Pasta off there and then zipping back to _Dacha_ ’s outbuilding for more. Technically they could use some of the thermite flares for this, but those don’t last as long and they’re a hazard. Getting to the point he left off, Pasta seems to be finishing up from what little Patrice can see of his colleague.

“Hey Bergy, catch!”

Something goes crashing into his helmet, knocking him right off the side of the ATV and into the dirt. All twenty thousand glow sticks avalanche down on top of him, and he loses track of where they all go as he slowly picks himself up off the ground.

“What the hell, Pasta!”

“You were looking at me, I thought you were ready!”

“Yeah, I actually wasn’t, I can barely see anything out here… help me find the glow sticks and that damn toolbox you threw at my head…”

“Did I crack your helmet?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Cool, now I don’t have to worry about Marchy coming after me.”

Patrice rolls his eyes and starts picking up glow sticks. For a second he thinks he feels something tickling the back of his neck a little bit, but then it goes away again and he forgets all about it. The tools and supplies are piled back onto the ATV and they’re moving again, and has the collar of his undershirt always been this annoying? He must’ve forgotten to pull the tag off this one. He spikes down the next long line of glow sticks, then returns to the third access point where Pasta manages to not throw an entire case of tools at him this time.

“Dude why are you fidgeting so much over there?”

“My neck is itchy, I think I forgot to pull the tag off this shirt.”

“We’ve been up here for more than seven months, how did you not get them all by now?”

“That’s a good question… maybe this is one of Brad’s shirts,” Patrice guesses. “He doesn’t pull the tags off his for some reason, but he stretches out the collars a bunch on purpose so they won’t touch his neck.”

“Here, let me see,” Pasta offers, bending around a little weirdly so that his helmet lamp can shine through Patrice’s visor. He frowns a little, then his eyes get big. “Uh… Bergy, do you hear hissing in there?”

“No, why?”

“There’s sand all over your neck. Here, turn around, let me check out your shit.” Patrice obliges and feels himself get jostled a little. “Um. Okay, so I’m even more sorry for hitting you with the toolbox, man.”

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“The seal on your hose is split, you’ve been losing air this whole time… dammit, let’s go back, I’ll get Brusky to help me finish this later. Krej is probably going to stick you in the box.”

Patrice feels like a deflating balloon as he drives them back to _Dacha,_ which seems even more appropriate when his alarm buzzer sounds a couple minutes before they get to the airlock. They decon, Pasta goes into the hallway and closes the inner door again, and Patrice takes off his suit and coverall so he can be deconed a second time. He sits with his back against the wall and sulks waiting for Krej or Backes to come get him. He doesn’t want to go into quarantine, he won’t be able to touch Brad while he’s in there, he’ll have to wear a procedure mask the whole time.

He won’t be able to touch Brad.

Oh god, Patrice could get sick, he’ll just be trapped inside a plastic box forever. If Brad got in there with him somehow, which knowing Brad’s tenacity is entirely possible, he might make Brad sick too… Patrice rubs his neck all over, then his face and his hair, trying to feel for any sand that might not have been blasted off by the decon spray. There’s nothing, but that doesn’t make him feel better. All he can do is sit and wait, sopping in his undershirt and boxers as decon fluid dribbles out from behind his ears.

Someone taps on the window of the inner door - Pasta again. “Krej will be here in a couple minutes, he said something about antibiotics… do you want me to tell Marchy what happened?”

“No, that’s a really bad idea, I’ll ask Dima to talk to him instead,” Patrice decides. Brad’s going to lose his shit and go into a spiral as it is, the least Patrice can do is send a qualified specialist to help with that. “I wish I caught the toolbox.”

“I wish I didn’t throw it at you,” Pasta answers. “I’ll fix your suit tonight, man, as soon as I’m done with Brusky.”

“Yeah.” Patrice sighs. “Pasta, really, don’t let Brad find out about this, okay? He’s going to get scared.”

“Okay, Bergy.”

Patrice sits quietly while he waits, as if he has any other choice but to do that. He really wants a nap, but he knows he won’t get one until Brad’s done panicking outside the plastic box he’ll be trapped in, and - why is Brad on the other side of the airlock?

“Pat why are you in there? I thought you’re not back until lunch.”

“Um…”

Oh no, no, this is bad, Brad’s eyes are fixed on where Patrice’s discarded pressure suit and coverall are piled up on the floor nearby, obviously putting the pieces together. “What the hell happened?!”

“The seal on my air hose broke and sand got in. There’s a dust storm going on, so…” Patrice decides to leave out Pasta’s involvement, because that would probably just make it worse. “Brad, it’s okay, I’m not hurt. I’ll probably just be boxed for a day or so.”

Brad is very obviously about to go for the airlock button, but thankfully Backes appears and grabs him. Both doctors showed up, which is probably a good thing because one can restrain Brad from doing something stupid while the other is free to actually help. Krej gives him a towel to dry off with and then makes him put on a mask. It’s weird to see them both in actual scrubs instead of the standard navy blue coveralls, but they probably just barely finished with Charlie.

Brad is almost literally kicking and screaming as Patrice is led away. “You’re going to send him straight to Dima, right?”

“Definitely. For you, there’s a round of antibiotics and twenty four hours in lock-up.”

“Great.”

“It won’t be that bad, Bergy. Actually it’ll probably be worse for him than for you.”

“It’ll _definitely_ be worse for him… Krej, can I ask you about something?”

“Sure.”

“I know Dima’s the shrink, but don’t you do some psych stuff in medical school, too?”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of the bare minimum. What’s up?”

“How sick is Brad?”

Krej sighs behind his own procedure mask before answering. “The terms of his treatment plan aren’t always about actual treatment. Roscosmos owns his ass for their study now and if it was up to me I’d have him evacuated… they’re sending him back here after the next buffer year so that they can keep doing their experiment. It’s a really good thing we’re restricted to a six-year total, because if they had him coming back again and again it could actually get him killed. He shouldn’t be allowed to be here for another three and a half years, and if this was the military he’d be given a medical discharge.”

Patrice tries to swallow but can’t. “And me?”

“Honestly? I’d let you finish your current term on this mission, but you wouldn’t be back either. Neither of you are doing okay and you need better psychiatric treatment than we can give you up here. That’s not a statement on you. It could’ve been any of us.”

“I love my job.”

“I know you do.”

“So does Brad.”

“Yeah, I know that too. None of us would be here if we didn’t love our jobs.”

Patrice feels miserable as he’s ushered into the plastic box and dressed in disposable paper scrubs. Krej takes a blood panel and a temperature, then sets him up for an IV.

“Brad didn’t get sick, so I probably won’t either, right?”

“Probably,” Krej agrees as he hooks up the fluid line and hangs it from the top of the pole. “Dima will be over when he’s done with Marchy, and on that note you won’t object to me loading him up on lorazepam, will you?”

“That’s a fantastic idea and I support it completely, just let him lie down on the bed right over there, he’ll want to be close by.”

“I planned on it. Alright, be careful of that line, I know it’s taped but it could still get pulled out if you flop around too much. Since the dust got in your helmet Backy’s going to look down your throat and everything… I have to go check on Charlie and then sedate your husband-to-be.”

“Okay. Hey, how’s Charlie doing?”

“He’ll be awake again in a few minutes, everything went well and hopefully now he’ll stop having arrhythmia.”

“Great, at least someone’s having a good day.”

Krej picks up the blanket from where it’s folded on the end of the cot and drapes it over Patrice’s shoulders. “I want you to lie down and relax. If you want I can give you a lorazepam, too, it might help you be less antsy while you’re waiting for the IV to run down.”

“Maybe after Dima’s finished with me. Thanks, Krej.”

And with that, he’s sealed inside his clear plastic prison, looking out on the infirmary through the barrier. It’s still worse knowing that Brad will be on the other side in a few minutes, staring back at him and probably upset enough to cry about it. Patrice doesn’t have to wait very long for that, either, because in comes Backes, dragging Brad into a chair so that Dima can hold him there while he’s shot up with lorazepam at least partially against his will.

“There. If you can’t behave we’re going to have to keep doing this, Marchy, just keep that in mind.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Brad stumbles over to the cot, somehow manages to shove it right up to the plastic, and the lies down without pulling up the blanket. “Pat… are you okay in there?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll be out tomorrow before lunch.”

“They said I can’t be here unless I get injected with that shit to calm me down first.”

“I know, I told them to, this way you won’t have a panic attack. It’s to help you.”

“I wish I can go in there with you. You need to get cuddled.”

Patrice can’t help it - he chuckles a little. “That would be really nice right now.” Careful of his IV line, he shuffles the cot over so that it’s right next to Brad’s and they can be lying down together. “I love you, Bradley.”

“Love you too, Pat. I’m sorry for flipping my shit. I always do that…”

“It’s okay, you’ve had to do this too so it makes sense for you to be scared.” Patrice presses his left hand to the plastic and Brad’s right meets it, passing heat through the barrier in place of skin contact. “It’s just twenty four hours.”

Brad nods a little, droopy-eyed. “It sucks they covered up your face, you’re so pretty.”

“They made you wear a mask.”

“Yeah, but on me it’s an improvement.” Brad’s eyes close and he rolls over, then scoots so his back is to the barrier. “Here, spoon me.”

Patrice smiles. “Okay.” He perches on the side of the cot so that his stomach is against the plastic sheeting and his chin is touching his fiancé's head. “Better?”

“Yeah… I need a nap…”

“That’s the lorazepam. Go ahead and sleep, Brad, I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want everyone to know that I never intended this fic to be so fucking angsty.


	16. First Week of January - Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst continues!

“What’s that?” Patrice asks, eyeing the IV bag in Krej’s hand with suspicion. He’s supposed to be let go in an hour.

“Bad news, Bergy. Your blood panel’s showing an immune response, so we’re loading you up on more antibiotics. You have at least four more days with us.”

“But… but I’m supposed to get out…”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Patrice gets that same collapsing balloon feeling he had yesterday in the airlock… he’s trapped here for four more days, now, because they found something in his blood panel. He half-listens to Krej’s spiel about cephalosporin and vancomycin, thinking that now he’s going to be stuck with needles six times a day while he’s confined to this three-meter-by-three-meter sitting hell. Patrice also predicts his fiancé, who they somehow managed to drag away for breakfast at the moment, will be repeatedly dosed with lorazepam to keep him from trying to claw his way into the quarantine box.

“Are you really sure? I’m supposed to get out, you said twenty four hours.”

Krej’s expression, what little Patrice can see of it behind the procedure mask, is full of pity. “We checked four times. If this round of antibiotics doesn’t work, we’ll go for the amoxicillin and doxycycline instead… you’ll be in here for at least five more days if it comes to that, though. Hopefully it won’t.”

“And Brad?”

“He’s going out with Pasta and Jake after breakfast to help them work on the sensor issue, as far as he knows you’ll be out when he gets back.”

“Krej, come on, you can’t do this to him.”

“He has to work, Bergy. And that’s that much less time he’ll be sitting here losing his shit about you still being boxed. The reaction will be the same. At least this way he gets a break for a few hours.”

Patrice hates how good of a point that is. “I see him getting lectured about quarantine protocol in the near future.”

“Probably.” Krej fiddles with something on the IV one last time and then sits in the folding chair by the door. “Zhenya Mozer is going to be here tomorrow to look you over, if you start developing symptoms he’s going to incorporate you into one of his projects. I figured you’d want to know about that in advance.”

“Great.” Then he frowns. “I thought Zhenya went home in July.”

“He did, but it was only for a four month break. _Vtoroy Institut_ cycles differently than we do, they do one-year-on-four-months-off. He just got back in December, I saw Tuuks chatting him up after the picnic.”

“Oh. Right, Zhenya’s a biologist too… so now I’m going to be one of Roscosmos’ experiments?”

“Only if you start to actually get sick. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that.”

“Don’t tell Brad. He’ll get scared.”

“Okay.” Krej sighs. “Y’know Backy was actually talking about this with me this morning when we were looking at your blood panel… Marchy took an open wound from a contaminated object and was fine. You got some dust on your neck and you’re showing an immune response to something. Hopefully the antibiotics knock this down before it can do anything to you.”

“What if they don’t? You can’t send me home to a hospital, it could be devastating.”

“You’ll go to Second Institute, they have much better medical capabilities there and can take better care of you. One of Zhenya’s colleagues interned in an intensive care unit before coming here, so he’d be the one taking care of you… Backy’s talked to him, so he could probably tell you more.”

“Okay. What happens to Brad if I get sick and have to go over there?”

“He can’t go with you.”

“Yeah, I know that, but… can you have them send you updates or something? Just so you can let him know what’s going on?”

“They’d be doing that anyway, but yes. I’d be over periodically anyway to collect data for Vadik’s study.”

Patrice nods, then swallows. He has to ask no matter how much he doesn’t want to. “What if I die?”

“You’ll be sent home.”

“If that happens Dima’s experiment needs to be terminated, you can’t let Brad stay here. He’ll have to be evacuated so that he can be with his family.”

“I’ll do what I can. You’ll have to talk to Dima about that.”

“Can I ask something else? I want you to be honest.”

“…okay?”

“Do you actually expect the antibiotics to work? I don’t know that much about bacteria, but that’s what Zhenya’s been searching for and when we were over there in May he said he still hadn’t found anything. So if I do get sick, it’s probably from something else, right? Which means the antibiotics won’t do anything except give me the shits.”

“We’re going to try this first anyway. Hopefully, the vancomycin will take care of it.”

“But what percentage do you think it is that this is a bacteria?”

“It’s not a high number.”

Patrice slouches back against the wall where he’s sitting on the cot. “Yeah… that’s kind of what I thought. So I’m going to get sick.”

“It’s definitely possible. We’re going to do everything we can.”

“I know, but… Brad… he’s not doing well, this is going to hurt him a lot.”

“Bergy there’s still a quarantine protocol. You couldn’t come in when he was in here, he can’t come in while you’re in here. It’s that simple.”

“But you do,” Patrice protests. “Couldn’t you just… have him wear his suit or something?”

“He hates his suit.”

“I know, but he’d probably do it if it meant he could come in here.”

“We can’t really do that, he’d have to be deconed and there’s no setup for that procedure in here.” Krej seems to be frowning under his mask. “We might be able to get away with it if he wears surgical attire and showers immediately afterwards. But it wouldn’t be for very long, probably twenty minutes or less.”

“I’ll take it.”

Krej nods. “I’ll see what I can do, I’ll have to get Backy to agree because the surgical supplies belong to him. Unrelated note, Dima will be over before lunch to talk to you, so you can ask him about not continuing his project with Brad if… something happens to you.”

“Okay. Thanks, Krej.”

“No problem.”

A thought occurs to him as Krej is getting up to leave. “Hey, one more thing.”

“What?”

“Can I get an iPad? I know my laptop can’t be disinfected, but there’s something I want to write down.”

“Sure, we can do that, hang on.”

One is retrieved from Krej’s desk and given over - Patrice wastes no time opening a blank document. He props it on his legs and starts tapping.

 

_Dear Bradley,_

_I know how much this sucks, because if you’re reading it right now that means I got sick and died somewhere over at Second Institute. Before I say anything else, though, the first thing I want to tell you is to do everything you can to be sent home. You should go straight home and not come back to Mars, because you need to be with your parents right now, they’ll take care of you. Being up here isn’t good for you, especially now. It hasn’t been good for you for a long time now. You need to be with your family and Roscosmos can fuck itself. If things are too much when you get home then you need to go to the hospital. It’s full of doctors and people like Dima who can help you get better._

_Besides all that, I know how bad this is for you. It’s the worst thing ever. It probably makes you wish you’re dead too, but I want you to know that I don’t wish you’re dead. After all the shit you had to put up with you don’t deserve to die now. I want you to still be alive. If you can’t find the right pictures to carry around with you, call my mom and ask her for some, she’s got tons of them and she’ll have the right ones. Wrap them up in plastic and stick them places: put one in your wallet, one on the table next to your bed, one on your fridge, and one in the corner of your bathroom mirror. Go back to all the places we went together during the buffer year. I’m still in all those places too. Visit my parents and my brother in Quebec City, because I’m there with them. I know I won’t be able to say anything back but come talk to me sometimes if you want. Get one of those custom Bruins jerseys with my name on it. The number I wore when I played in college was 37._

 

Patrice stops for a second and rubs his eyes with his fingertips. He hates this so much, but it needs to happen, just in case.

 

_Some other stuff that’s important now:_

_I wasn’t going to let my mom take over our wedding. I’ve heard moms do that sometimes but I would make sure my mom didn’t. I wanted us to get married outside under an apple tree instead of in a church because that would just be cool and our wedding pictures would look different from everyone else’s. I would find something for you to stand on so that you could be the same height as me if you wanted and I would do your necktie for you because a clip-on just wouldn’t cut it and I know you don’t know how to tie one on your own. Afterwards I was going to take you to the beach because I know you like the ocean. I would let you bury me in the sand and take pictures._

_I was going to keep the stand-in even if you got me a real engagement ring once we got home. It’s too special to throw away._

_Someday I wanted us to have kids. We could raise one to be an astronaut and the other to be a hockey player. I would let you pick the first names and I would pick the middle names, and our moms could fight over which last name they got. I wouldn’t care either way because they’d be ours and that’s the important thing._

_My two favorite memories of us on earth are when we went to the lake with our families and the first time we saw a Bruins game together. My favorite memory on Mars is when you asked me to marry you._

_If you ever get worried that you’ll forget the sound of my voice my mom filmed us on her phone while we were visiting my brother that one time, she has almost a ten minute video of us snuggling on the couch saying stupid things to each other. Ask her to send it to you._

_For a birthday present during the next buffer year I was finally going to go hunting with you even though I probably wouldn’t have actually killed anything._

_Things I’m okay with:_

_1 if you’re still sad about this for years and years. Sometimes people tell other people that their loved one would want them to be happy. If you need to be sad for a long time then do it._  
_2 if you get over it someday. If you’re able to move on and that’s what you want then by all means do so._  
_3 if you don’t get over it. This is okay too. It’s up to you. If this was the other way around I don’t know if I could get over it so if you can’t get over it that’s totally understandable. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  
_ _4 if there ends up being someone else after me. I want you to feel loved. It’s as simple as that, I promise. You never have to feel bad about it and don’t you dare come to my grave begging forgiveness for it because my skeleton will climb out of the ground just to slap some sense into you if you do. You have nothing to apologize for._

_Things I’m not okay with:_

_1 you hurting yourself. If you ever think about doing this for even a second then you need to go straight to the emergency room. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Go straight there. It’s safe there and they’ll help you. When you’re in the hospital, call my mom and she’ll come visit you there.  
_ _2 you coming back to Mars. Never do this. Ever. It WILL fuck you up even worse and you don’t deserve that._

_When you’re not with my family or your family remember to still take care of yourself. Make sure to buy Ivory or Dove soap because those ones don’t irritate your skin and get toothbrushes with extra soft bristles instead of just the normal soft bristles. When you get ground beef at the grocery store buy it that’s at least 90% lean so that you don’t end up with all that grease and fat. Buy store-brand laundry detergent because it’s cheaper than name-brand detergent but it still works just as good. Get the Barbasol in the green can and not the red can, the green can has aloe and your face is softer after. Change your sheets every two weeks in the winter and every week in the summer._

_I love you so much Brad. Writing this is making me sad but I have to do it so that you’ll know all this stuff if the worst happens. I hope you never have to read this but if you do I’m glad I was able to write everything down, because if I couldn’t write it down first then I wouldn’t be able to tell you all these things. I don’t always do the best with written stuff but I want to make sure you know how much I love you. So here are my wedding vows._

_I still remember how I felt when I first asked you to start dating me. I kept thinking that something would happen before I could ask but nothing did, and when I did ask and you agreed I knew it was the right thing. It felt like it was supposed to happen that way and there was no other option. The entire time we’ve been together has been me learning all kinds of new feelings to keep up with you. You’re the biggest and brightest thing in my life. You filled all kinds of holes that I never even knew I had. I know you sometimes think I’m perfect, but I know I’m not because the thing that made my life perfect is you. You’re my best friend, you’re the love of my life, and I feel the most happy when I know that you’re happy too._

_A few last things:_

_1 in the first few months or however long it is if you feel too lonely sleeping by yourself, buy one of those heat blankets and roll it up like a rug. Then put it under the covers on the other side of the bed and it’ll be kind of like body heat. Maybe this will help a little._  
_2 if the Bruins ever go to the final you should go see one of those games. I know it’s expensive to get those tickets but it’s something I’ve always wanted to do and it would be nice if you can do it for me since I won’t be able to. Make sure you stuff yourself with hotdogs and chips._  
_3 cry as much as you need to and don’t feel bad for doing it. Crying is good. Just make sure you drink enough water to make up for it.  
_ _4 do therapy. There are lots of good therapists out there. Don’t trick yourself into thinking you don’t need it, because you do. Tell him or her all about me and all about Mars and all about the accidents we had with our suits._

_I know this is a lot to read and there’s probably stuff I missed. I wrote down as much as I could think of. I hope at least some of it helps you even if none of it actually makes you feel better. The most important thing is still that I love you more than I can say. I’m scared that you might actually have to read this. I’m scared of you losing me because that’s the worst thing I can do to you. But if you do have to read this I promise it’s not the end of the world. It’s going to be really terrible, maybe for years. But someday it won’t hurt as bad. You’ll remember how to smile again. I know you will because you’re always smiling, it’s important to you and you do it so much. You’ll probably visit my family and tell them silly stories about something dumb that I did once, and they’ll laugh with you over it. I’ll still come find you in dreams sometimes._

_Love and hugs and kisses_

_Patrice._

 

He sniffs in hard through his nose and breathes out shakily after, wiping his eyes on the back of his wrist as he taps ‘save’ on the screen. Patrice hopes his fiancé never sees a single word of this document.

There’s a light tapping against the plastic barrier - Dima’s here, sitting on the other side with his clipboard and looking very concerned.

“So Backy informed me that they’ve found something in your blood.”

“Yeah. They did.” Patrice hiccups. “I’m going to get sick… I’ll have to go to _Vtoroy Institut,_ but maybe they won’t be able to do anything and…”

“Bergy, please take some breaths.” Dima waits to be obeyed before talking again. “How are you feeling right now?”

“Scared,” he admits.

“Of dying?”

“Yeah, that too, but… but also of what’s going to happen to Brad if I do. He’s gotten so fragile, that would break him.”

“It seems likely,” Dima agrees quietly. “Zhenya and Andreshka will do everything they can to help you, I promise. You’re not simply a lab animal. They’ll make their best effort to care for you and help you survive. There is also Maksim Afinogenov, he’s their best surgeon. The medical team is very well-trained and their infirmary is quite superior to the one here.”

“How are you going to help Brad while I’m over there?”

“He’s going to be put back on distance restrictions most likely. I’ll also recommend to Bruce that he not be allowed on field assignments as part of a two-man team, it must be a trio or more. At night it may be a good idea for him to sleep here under observation in case his mental condition… deteriorates.”

“Dima, um… if I - if I don’t end up coming back from _Vtoroy Institut,_ you can’t keep doing this project with Brad. Please just send him home, otherwise he’ll be suffering by himself up here for no reason. I want him to go back to earth and be with his parents if I go back in a box.”

“I’ll do my best, Roscosmos is interested in this project. If I convince them the results aren’t viable because the parameters have changed, they’ll probably let him go.”

“Okay.” Patrice sets the iPad to the side and pulls his knees up, curling in on himself a little. “I asked Krej this, too, but don’t tell Brad that I’m going to _Vtoroy Institut._ It’ll scare him and he doesn’t need that… the waiting’s going to kill me anyway, so telling him about it would just be cruel.”

“It may not happen at all, Bergy. It’s possible you won’t become ill.”

“But it’s more likely that I’m going to,” he points out. “Just… please don’t tell him.”

“I won’t, unless you become symptomatic. Now… please also remember that your mental state can have a large effect on your physical organism. If you go to _Vtoroy Institut_ believing that you’ll die there, it’s more likely that you will. So find positive details to focus on, as much as you possibly can. For instance, at that complex the food is much higher quality, and the nutrients will be better to help you fight off an illness. Besides that, when you come back here, you’ll also be coming back to Marchy, which will be very satisfying for you both. I want you to think of those things if it becomes necessary. You’re also very strong and otherwise healthy, so with supportive medical care and experienced doctors it’s perfectly reasonable to think you have a good chance of surviving to complain about this at a later time - and both of those things can be found at _Vtoroy Institut._ It might simply turn out to be uncomfortable for awhile, even.”

“Krej couldn’t tell me much, he just said they saw an ‘immune response’ in my blood panel.”

“That does sound unspecific. It probably doesn’t help your anxiety over the situation… he may have more details for you later, though.”

“Maybe.”

“What were you writing?”

“Just now?”

“Yes, on the iPad.”

“Just a bunch of stuff for Brad. In case I can’t tell him… there’s a lot of instructions and things. It’s private, okay? If… Dima, if I go to _Vtoroy Institut_ and then die there, on this iPad is a document, it’s just called ‘for Brad.’ Try to get him to read the entire thing, it’s all important and he needs to know.”

“Yes, I understand.”

It feels so morbid that Patrice is telling him this. He doesn’t want to die - like most people, he doesn’t even want to _think_ about dying, not in regards to himself or the people he loves or even strangers he doesn’t know. It scares him a lot. He’s afraid. This might be his reality, now, sitting in a plastic box with the rest of his life measured in months or even just weeks. And in those months or weeks he’ll never be allowed skin contact or really contact of any kind with Brad. For some reason the worst thing about it is that Brad doesn’t deserve to live with this.

“Dima?”

“Yes?”

“What’s it like for you, being here and knowing that Ilya will never come back to this place?”

“Terrible.” Dima shifts in his chair. “Very unfair. I have to wait sixteen months before I can see him again.”

“Tell me about Ilya. When he’s not being a cosmonaut, what’s he like?”

Patrice watches him smile slowly. It’s the same smile Brad wears when he’s talking about how much he loves Patrice.

“There’s a Soviet Belarusian poet, Slyunkov, that he likes. Sometimes when he’s sitting I’ll lay down with my head on his legs and he’ll read it to me. We both like ice hockey as well, so sometimes in winter we’ll skate… but then we have to say we’re friends or brothers so that people won’t be suspicious.”

“Because of Vladimir, right?”

“Yes. He’s a bastard.”

Patrice nods. “Do you know when Brad’s getting back from his field assignment?”

“Sometime after lunch, I think.”

“Can you be there to catch him when he does?”

“Yes, I was planning on it.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Dima leaves him alone after that, which means Patrice doesn’t do much besides sitting there thinking awful things about death. He wonders how much it’ll hurt, how long it’ll take, if he’ll even be awake for it when it happens. Briefly he considers whether it was a good idea to stop being Catholic. On that note, his mother will probably want it to be a church funeral. Brad will cry the whole time… it seems likely that Brad will immediately start crying on learning that Patrice didn’t make it, finally stopping only after passing out from exhaustion, and then be stuck in a cycle of that for weeks on end. A perpetual state of crying in all its various, ugly forms, everything from silent tears to hideous wracking sobs. Nothing will stop it. Nothing will comfort him. Brad will shatter into hundreds of pieces like a dropped dinner plate.

Patrice is popped back into reality when he hears someone entering the quarantine box - it’s Backes, carrying an IRP and a bottle of vitamin water. “You look like you’re freaking out about something, Bergy.”

“Just thinking about some things… so what did you find in my blood?”

“An absurd number of white blood cells. Krej asked Tuuks to look at it and see what he thought, and… none of the answers we got were very nice. By the way, what’s this about borrowing surgical supplies?”

Patrice explains everything Krej said while he tears open his IRP. “If I get sent to Second Institute this could be the last chance I get to hug my fiancé. Ever.”

Somehow, Backes manages a very expressive frown around his procedure mask. “No skin contact, no kissing,” he insists, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ll have twenty minutes.”

“I know.”

“One of us will be in here with you to stop Marchy from trying something stupid.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Backes repeats, nodding slightly. “Here, actually, let me grab the next round of blood from you real quick since I’m already here.”

Patrice sits still and allows himself to be stuck briefly, then goes back to his food. His hands tremble as he pries open an 80-gram can of lunch meat, and when he picks up his fork he immediately realizes that he’s the exact opposite of hungry.

“Bergy.” Patrice looks up and finds Krej watching him from outside the plastic. “Eat.”

“I feel sick,” he protests. Then he realizes what he said. “Um, but not dying-sick, I feel anxious.”

“Okay. Is it because of the obvious or something else?”

“I just realized that Brad’s going to see Dima waiting for him outside the airlock and he’ll come running in here screaming and losing his shit.”

“Alright, I can see why you’d be concerned about that.” Krej pulls on gloves and a procedure mask and comes into the box so he can drag the chair over to the cot. “Brad’s going to do what he’s going to do though, right? There’s not much you can really do about that.” He reaches over and takes the can from Patrice, studying it. “Here’s the problem, though. If you get sick and go to Second Institute, it’s pretty likely you’ll have to go on IV nutrition. So you need to try and get as many nutrients from actual food as you can before that. IV nutrition doesn’t always work as well as actual nutrition, and I’m pretty sure at least most of us here want to see you come back. So you should really just eat this.” He hands it back.

Patrice snorts. “Is this how you talk to kids in your emergency room back home?”

“This is just how I talk to patients, Bergy. It’s called bedside manner. And actually, I don’t have an emergency room at home, because I went to medical school in the US for some stupid reason so now I’m trapped there until I complete my residency. After that I can go back to the Czech Republic.”

“Ah.”

“Eat your food, Bergy.”

Patrice grudgingly takes a bite and needs almost a full minute to swallow it. “How come you keep coming in here and sitting? You didn’t do that when Brad was boxed, isn’t it against protocol?”

“Treating patients isn’t done with a cookie-cutter. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry, Krej.”

“Okay… eat that can, eat the can of cheese, and half a pack of crackers. If you can do that much I’ll stop riding your ass until dinner.”

“Can I skip the crackers?”

“No. It’s four crackers, you can do that.”

Krej actually stays in the box to supervise him while he chokes down his lunch. Once that’s finally over with, Patrice stows the rest of his food under his cot and watches Krej leave… and head straight into Dima’s office. That’s really weird - usually if Krej needs to talk to Dima, they just talk in the middle of the infirmary. Which means that whatever they’re talking about isn’t something Patrice is supposed to hear, and that makes him nervous.

And then Vadik takes a turn, sitting outside in the chair Dima normally uses. As always, he has his notebook.

“So Bergy… how did this happen in the first place?” Vadik asks, flipping to a clean page and clicking his pen against it.

“The seal on my air hose cracked.”

“Yes, but how did _that_ happen? Bergy, you’re part of my study just like everyone else, I need to know.”

“You can’t tell Brad this, because he may actually kill Pasta for it, but Pasta threw me a toolbox and I didn’t catch it. I fell off the ATV and landed on my head.”

“Alright. I won’t tell Marchy… if you end up in _Vtoroy Institut,_ they’ll be sending me your data.”

“Were you ever at that complex to work?”

“No, I was at _Perviy Institut_ before this. It’s likely what will happen over there first is that they’ll load you up on medicine and then run every test they can think of to see if you’re contagious. Andreshka will take good care of you, they sent all the burn victims to him first after the electrical fire in _Perviy Institut_ a few months back. He’s very talented.”

“I met him briefly when we went over there, he’s…” Patrice trails off when he hears noise coming from somewhere. It sounds like a bunch of people stomping. “What is that?”

He gets his answer when a very loud and angry-sounding “Get the fuck _off_ me, Pasta!” comes from somewhere outside the infirmary. Brad comes barreling in from the hall, still wearing most of his pressure suit and dripping decon fluid all over the place. Pasta comes running up and tackles him, sending them both crashing to the floor and knocking over an IV pole on their way down.

“Dude you can’t go in there, you’ll get sick!”

“I don’t care!” Brad screams, flailing and struggling to try and get up. His head raises. “Pat why the fuck are you still in there?! You’re supposed to be back out! You’re supposed to be okay!”

This is even worse than Patrice thought - Brad’s completely lost it and now Krej and Vadik are rushing over to pile on him with Pasta. Dima slowly comes back into the infirmary, rubbing his temples and looking like he needs either a nap or an entire bottle of vodka.

“He has to be sedated,” Dima mumbles as he passes by on the way to his office.

“You think?” Krej snaps. “Can you go find Backy? He should be in the cafeter-Marchy! Stop!”

Brad, for his part, is very nearly succeeding at fighting all of them off somehow, repeatedly yelling as loud as he can for them to let go of him.

“What do we call this?” Vadik wonders loudly as he finally gets Brad in a chokehold.

“In a hospital this would be a code green. Twenty thousand security guards would come running over to pile on him so that I wouldn’t have to.”

Brad jams his elbow into Vadik’s stomach, but he only makes it an inch closer to the quarantine box before Pasta and Krej are dragging him away by the neck joint of his suit. Vadik recovers enough to pile back on as well, and Brad pretty much stays trapped for the next two minutes before Backes appears and pumps him full of lorazepam. Brad collapses almost immediately.

“Okay… thank god that’s done with,” Vadik groans as he rolls to the side with his arms over his gut.

“He’s not hurt, is he?” Patrice asks.

“Oh, sure, ask if _he’s_ hurt…”

“No, Bergy, physically he’s fine,” Backes answers.

“Alright, Pasta you can go now,” Krej orders. “Vadik, go lie down. Backy?”

“Yup.”

The two of them start struggling Brad out of his pressure suit. He’s completely limp, occasionally mumbling things that both doctors ignore. Dima appears again briefly, but it’s only long enough to shut himself in his office with a bottle of vodka and a shot glass. Patrice wonders what that’s about for a second, then goes back to watching his fiancé get picked up off the floor and put in the cot on the other side of the plastic barrier.

“How long until this wears off?”

“It’s not going to, we’re putting him on a drip and keeping him loaded with benzodiazepines,” Krej grumbles.

“You can’t do that,” Patrice protests.

“He’s not going to, he’s just frustrated,” Backes jumps in. He leans over the cot. “When you’re done literally kicking and screaming, Marchy, we’re going to put you in surgical gear and let you go in the box with Bergy for a few minutes if you promise to behave and keep your mask on.”

“R’lly?”

“Yes. Are you done throwing tantrums now?”

“Yeah… ’m’tir’d…”

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you freak the hell out and need to be sedated. So before you pass out, why did you do this?”

“Saw D’ma… I got sc’red… wh’n he shows up ’t’s us’lly to tell me s’mth’n’ bad.”

“Your fiancé needs more antibiotics and he may still get sick. If you can’t handle that like an adult we can’t let you be in here, Marchy.”

“Pat’s sick?”

“Not yet. He might not get sick, we don’t know yet. But he’s having kind of a hard time with that, so you need to behave yourself. Can you do that?”

“Try.”

“Good. Sleep it off, Marchy, when you get up again we’ll let you have your visitation.”

“’kay.”

“Maybe we should just do it now, then he can’t fight back when the timer goes off,” Krej suggests.

“That’s probably a good idea, let me grab the stuff.”

Patrice watches them dress Brad in the same disposable paper scrubs he’s forced to wear, then shoe covers and gloves, a mask, a head cover, gown, and then a second pair of gloves. The only part of Brad still visible are his eyes. Brad’s led over to the entrance and Krej puts on a mask, then the door is slid to the side and he’s allowed in. Patrice waits for the door to close again, then jumps off the cot and in two steps is hugging his fiancé. Brad sags against him with a quiet whine that’s somewhere between relief and fear.

“You sick, Pat?”

“Probably.” Patrice drags him over to the cot and they lie down for cuddles. “Brad look, we don’t actually know what’s wrong. I might get really, really sick. I might… I might even die.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I guess I breathed in some sand. I’m really scared that the end for me is going to be in this plastic box, and if that happens there’s a document on an iPad you need to read. Dima can help you find it. So please don’t try to come back in here, I don’t want you to get sick too.”

“I don’care,” Brad decides, yanking down his mask and stuffing his face into Patrice’s neck.

“Brad-”

“No. Y’re dying, I get t’ touch you.” Brad drapes an arm and a leg over him. “Why’re y’dying?”

“I don’t know if I’m going to die, Bradley, it _might_ happen. We don’t know how things are going to go for me.”

“I don’want you t’ die, Pat. ’s not allowed.”

Patrice tries to laugh but what comes out is a sob. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to leave Brad alone. He doesn’t want to be sent back to his mother in the other kind of plastic box.

Brad, amazingly, isn’t crying, although that may have something to do with him being drugged into submission a couple minutes ago. He just kisses Patrice through the procedure mask and insists for a second time that Patrice isn’t allowed to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm… so I reiterate, this fic was never meant to be this angsty.
> 
> I think it's important to note that Patrice immediately jumping to conclusions and writing up a post-mortem letter for Brad when he's not showing any symptoms is actually the manifestation of a panic attack. He's having an abnormal panic attack and doesn't know it, which is why he immediately assumes the worst and writes all of that.
> 
> In regards to the throwaway line about Patrice used to be Catholic, I just kind of assume because he's French that that one's the most likely. Also because I used to be Catholic and Christianity in all its forms needs to fizzle out and die like yesterday.


	17. First Week of January - Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few minutes early. Oh well.

Patrice wakes up to two very concerning things: he’s extremely sweaty and suddenly has a cough.

He rolls onto his side and starts hacking, grabbing the edge of the cot for leverage as he works a gob of phlegm out of his throat. By the end his eyes are watering from coughing so hard and he really needs something to drink. And has it always been this cold in the infirmary? Patrice gets up long enough to peel the disposable scrubs off his body, then lays down again in his damp bedding and pulls the blanket up to his nose. The feeling reminds him, for some reason, of how chicken soup tastes.

Patrice is too uncomfortable to go back to sleep, even ignoring the wracking wet cough, so he lies there for awhile trembling on the cot and watching Brad slumber through the sheeting. He wishes Brad was in here with him because Brad’s always warm, he throws off so much heat.

That thought makes him realize that he’s sick.

“Shit,” Patrice whispers to himself, which triggers another coughing fit. He rolls to the side and spits out more phlegm onto the floor because there’s really nowhere else it can go, then bangs his palm on the barrier next to his fiancé's head. “Brad… Brad… Brad get up…”

Brad grumbles and shifts a little. “Pat? What is it?”

“Get Krej, I need help.”

Brad’s instantly awake and sitting up straight. “You do? What’s going on?”

“I can’t breathe… get Krej.”

Brad takes off running. Meanwhile Patrice pulls the procedure mask all the way off so that he can hopefully get enough air in his lungs, plus then it’ll be easier to spit out whatever it is he’s coughing up. It doesn’t seem to take that long for the lights in the infirmary to flick on and the door to slide open.

“Bergy? Marchy said you can’t breathe, sit up for me?” Patrice struggles himself upright and is immediately coughing again. Krej uses a stethoscope in order to listen to him frantically hacking out the insides of his lungs, then takes his temperature by swiping his forehead. “Thirty eight point one… I’m going to do your blood panel early, hopefully Tuuks won’t mind that it’s five in the morning. I’ll get you a kidney basin, too, so that you can stop spitting on the floor. Zhenya may want samples of that when he’s here today.”

“Can I have a dry blanket?”

“Absolutely. Sit tight.”

Krej comes back with a pile of stuff, which turns out to be not just a blanket but clean sheets as well. Patrice is given a new set of disposable scrubs and some ibuprofen, then Krej hands him the plastic kidney basin and sticks him for the blood panel.

“Is Zhenya going to take me with him when he leaves after?”

“Well… you’re already showing symptoms, so he might. If you want I can try and keep you here for a couple more days but they have better equipment and more staff over there, so it could be good to get you to Second Institute as soon as possible.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Brad demands from outside the barrier.

“I’m sick, Brad… if I ended up getting sick then I’d have to go there for treatment. I didn’t want you to know in case it didn’t happen, you would’ve…” Patrice stops to gasp for breath. “…would’ve just gotten scared over nothing.”

“Yeah, this isn’t _nothing!_ ” Brad screams. “You woke me up at quarter to five because you can’t breathe! That’s like, the exact opposite of nothing, Pat!”

“But you spend so much time being scared anyway, I didn’t want to make it worse for you.”

“Yeah well, now I’m scared _and_ pissed because you didn’t tell me! What the fuck! Were you sick yesterday too and just didn’t say anything?!”

“No, I woke up like this just now…” Patrice wants to say more but he starts coughing again.

“Marchy, stop,” Krej orders. “Okay, Bergy, if you prop yourself up on your pillows instead of lying down all the way it’ll help you breathe easier. The ibuprofen should kick in about fifteen minutes from now, it’ll help your fever be less uncomfortable for you. Since your cough is productive, I’m not going to give you anything to suppress it, but if you start to have more severe respiratory distress I might have to put you on oxygen. Now… do you want to wait a couple days and see if this clears up, or do you want to head straight for Second Institute when Zhenya comes over?”

“What do you think I should do?”

“You should go straight there. They can take better care of you than I can, I’m an ER doc and Mironov is an intensivist.”

“But Krej-”

“No, Marchy. All of First Institute’s grievous injuries got sent to Second Institute too, it’s protocol. They’re better set up than the other two complexes and can perform more advanced life support procedures, their infirmary is the closest thing we have to a hospital in the entire hemisphere.”

“Can’t they just send their doctors and shit over here instead?” Brad demands.

“No, they can’t, and they’re not going to. If you don’t calm down I’m going to tackle you and pump you full of drugs again, so for both our sakes just sit your ass down. You’re not helping.”

“Be nice to him,” Patrice insists. Of course, he’s immediately hacking again afterwards, and at the end spits a huge glob of whatever this is into the kidney basin. With the lights on, he can see it better, and… “Uh, Krej? Is that blood?”

“The little dark flecks? Maybe. There’s not enough of it to tell without a microscope handy. Zhenya can probably tell us more. Honestly, though, you haven’t been sick long enough for that to be likely, so it’s probably something else.” Krej briefly pauses to put the dry bedding on Patrice’s cot. “Alright, I’m going to grab you a couple more pillows so you can prop yourself up better… you should try to get some more sleep if you can, I’m going to go bring your blood to the lab and hope that Backy and Tuuks don’t try to kill me for waking them up so early. I’ll check back in a few minutes if you need anything.”

“Okay,” Patrice nods, climbing into bed. “Send Dima after breakfast too, Brad needs to talk to him.”

“I actually don’t,” Brad argues.

“You’re talking to him, Bradley.”

“I’ve been driving him crazy, he doesn’t want to see me.”

“Is that why he took a bottle of liquor into his office yesterday?”

“Boys, you both need to go back to sleep,” Krej interrupts. “Like I said, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Patrice ends up with a mound of pillows under his shoulders and head, which is nice for his back and his lungs but there’s no way in hell he can fall asleep like this because he usually sleeps on his side. Plus his fiancé is staring at him, and even with the lights turned back off it’s really distracting.

“Get some sleep, Brad, okay?” Patrice tries to take a deep breath and almost chokes coughing after. “I’ll still be here until at least lunchtime, and when you’re tired you get cranky.”

“Remember yesterday when you said you’re scared? I’m scared, too.”

“I know. Krej and Backy both keep going on about how amazing the doctors are over there, though, and so did Dima. They’re going to take care of me.”

“But I can’t go with you…”

“It’s only a few weeks. It’ll be like when we got called to NASA at different times, we were away from each other for a couple weeks then.”

“But you weren’t sick and possibly dying when that happened.”

“Bradley. Listen to me. I’m going to do everything I can to not die, I promise.”

“Yeah but you gave me a whole oxygen tank once, so I’m not super confident that you know how to not get your own ass killed, Pat.”

“You need to let that go.”

“I will when you stop making fun of me for the cake thing.”

“Done.” Patrice sucks in an extra-difficult breath. “I hope they don’t stick tubes down my throat over there.”

“Won’t you gag and puke all over them?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Hey Brad?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Pat.”

“If you start freaking out while I’m gone, I want you to talk to Dima and then take a nap.”

“Dima’s not doing great, you know. Yesterday night in the cafeteria everyone was asking him about you dying… so like literally everyone is his patient right now and in just a couple hours he was already overworked. I bet that’s why he was drinking alone in his office.”

“No, that happened before.”

“Oh. Uh. Well… I may have punched him. A little.”

“Bradley Kevin.”

“I was freaking out, I didn’t mean it. He said you were having some kind of problem and that I should go with him to talk, and I… majorly lost my shit when he said that. I was kind of already losing my shit the second I saw him waiting for me. I mean. You saw what happened in here. Literally every decision I made yesterday afternoon was the wrong one.”

“No shit.”

Brad sighs a little. “I told him I was sorry during dinner. He said to not do it again.”

“Yeah, he’s right, you shouldn’t do that again,” Patrice agrees. He shuffles himself against the pillow mound and groans because he can feel a coughing fit coming on. “There’s… um… a couple positives. You’ll have an entire bunk to yourself and when I get back it’ll feel really good.”

“But you might not come back.”

“Try not to think about that so much. Just… keep doing your therapy with Dima and make sure you take care of yourself. You don’t look good with a beard.”

At least he’s managed to finish a thought before the next round of gasping, barking and choking. Another glob of phlegm gets spit into the kidney basin and Patrice sinks back into the pillow mound. He’s a little less sweaty and uncomfortable now, though, so the ibuprofen must’ve kicked in. He wishes he wasn’t contagious so that Brad could come in and snuggle him.

Krej reappears. “Alright, Tuuks is looking at your blood… I’ll be back in a little bit. Marchy, if I come back and you’re in there with him, I’ll punish you. Do you need anything, Bergy?”

“I need to not have to cough so much.”

“Well, your cough is productive, so it needs to happen. Try to relax if you can, okay?”

Patrice sighs and readjusts in bed again. Besides the obvious, he’s not looking forward to going to Second Institute because the cosmonauts over there always call him Patrik. Patrik isn’t his name. It’s English or Irish or something and he’s neither of those things. But Russian doesn’t translate Patrice, so they call him Patrik, and he kind of hates that. Apparently that’s the right thing to think about though, because he falls asleep without realizing it and wakes up to Backes taking his temperature and his clothes sticking to him again.

“Morning, Bergy.”

“Hi.” He turns his head to the side so that he doesn’t cough in Backes’ face. “How long until Zhenya gets here?”

“He’ll be here in a few minutes, Tuuks contacted him and said you’re showing symptoms so you’re now marked as ‘urgent’ on their project sheet.”

“Fantastic. How’s Brad doing?”

“At least he’s freaking out more quietly than usual, he’s with Dima right now.”

“Oh. How’s Dima?”

“We’ve all been dumping our fears on him, so he’ll probably go back to that stockpile of vodka he has in his office the second he gets the chance. Nobody thinks about what happens when the psychologist needs some head-shrinking I guess… Krej is going to try talking to him later.”

“So you guys don’t believe in me, huh? Everyone thinks I’m going to die. That’s great. Thank you.”

“Who told you that?”

“My fiancé.”

“It’s not that we think you’re a goner, Bergy, we just don’t know why you’re sick and humans are naturally scared of the unknown. So everyone started in on Dima last night in the cafeteria and it looks like he cracked.”

“That’s probably from him having to put up with me and Brad.” Patrice feels the need to cough and tries taking a deep breath instead. It doesn’t help. “Krej kept coming in and sitting with me yesterday.”

“Yeah, well… don’t tell him I told you this, but he’s the one who actually _does_ think you’re a goner. He’s also about eighty percent of Dima’s nervous breakdown right now.”

“Why is me being sick killing everyone else with me?”

“Because we like you, Bergy. We don’t want you to die. Now, Marchy aside, what do you think it’ll do to us over here if you did?”

“Probably nothing good.”

“Exactly. Alright, I’m done with you until you get back, your fiancé will be returned to you in a few minutes with minimal scratches and dents.”

“Great. Thanks, Backy.”

“Get well soon, Bergy, I mean it.”

“I’ll try.”

He lies back and tries to breathe normally for a few minutes, occasionally coughing. This phlegm isn’t normal phlegm, either, it looks like the yellowish goo that comes out of a popped pimple. That makes Patrice really uncomfortable, so much that he immediately stops looking at and thinking about it. What also helps him forget is Brad’s loud argument with Dima as both of them come out of the small office on the other end of the infirmary.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, okay?” Brad yells, which sounds familiar. “It’s one dream. I’m not asleep right now. I’m done talking about it.”

“Marchy-”

“Just fuck off, okay?!” he screams, ears red and hands balled. “I only get like two more hours before Pat gets sent to _Vtoroy Institut_ to die, and I’m not spending them with you, Dima!”

Brad throws himself down on the cot beside the plastic sheeting, curling into a ball with a pillow hugged to his chest. He’s obviously two seconds away from crying.

“What’s going on?” Patrice asks quietly.

“You’re going to die,” Brad whimpers. “You’re going to go over there and then die. Fuck, Pat… I… I’m scared…” He bursts into tears and stuffs his face into the pillow.

“I’m not going to die, I promise.” Patrice has no idea right now whether he’s lying to his fiancé’s face, but he can’t possibly say anything else in response to this obvious mental breakdown. “I’ll be back soon, and I’ll cuddle you.” He coughs for a minute and uses that as a cover for the fact that he’s also crying. It’s easier because Brad’s not looking at him right now. “I know it’s scary and it sucks, but it won’t be that long.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Brad sobs. Patrice wonders how he gets enough air to do that with the pillow in the way. “I wish you could stay here.”

“I know. I don’t want to go, either, I want to be here with you. But I’m sick, if I don’t go I can’t get better.” He rubs his face dry with his palms. “What did you dream about?”

“It’s not important.”

“Is it like the scar thing a few days ago?”

“No… well, kind of… I was… I was in this room, it was like a white room. There was no windows and I kept trying to get out but I couldn’t find the door anywhere. And I was just stuck there forever. When I finally found a way out you were there, and… um… and you weren’t breathing. I kept shaking you but you wouldn’t get up, and… fuck, Pat, I woke up because you were banging your hand on the thing and right after that you said you couldn’t breathe.”

Okay, Patrice can see why Brad’s so upset about this. “It’s okay, I’m still here. I _can_ breathe, it’s just harder than usual, that’s not really the same thing.”

“This is still kind of worse.”

“Why?”

“In dreams I can touch you.”

“I don’t want you to get sick.”

“If I got sick, I could go with you.”

“Bradley, _no._ Don’t even think about it.”

“Too late for that.”

“You’re not coming in here, I don’t want you to get sick,” Patrice insists.

In two seconds Brad somehow goes from incapacitated by crying to on his feet trying to open the door of the quarantine box. Patrice bolts for his side of the door, doing everything he can to hold it closed until someone comes back and puts a stop to this… but that doesn’t happen, because he ends up having a coughing fit. It’s more than enough to give Brad a window for entry. Patrice ends up sitting on the floor, gasping and wheezing between hacking expulsions while he holds his ribs.

“Here, get up.” Brad’s hands lift under his arms and pull him back to his feet. “You should’ve just stayed lying down.”

“You shouldn’t be in here!” Patrice snaps, driving himself to start coughing again.

Somehow they end up settled on the cot with Brad sandwiched between Patrice’s back and the stack of pillows, with Patrice’s head tilted to rest on Brad’s shoulder. He hates this so much, now his fiancé will get sick… but it’s so, so nice to touch again. He can’t help closing his eyes and soaking in the feeling of Brad’s fingers twined with his. Brad kisses his temple.

“Can you breathe?”

“Yeah. Mostly.”

“Okay.” Brad lets go with one hand in order to stroke his hair. “I don’t even really care if I get sick, I just hate you being stuck in here by yourself.”

“Yeah but _I_ care if you get sick,” Patrice growls. “Quarantine is a thing for a reason, Bradley.”

“I know.” Brad’s starting to shake a little, which means one of two things: he’s either supposed to be donning his pressure suit but is about to have a panic attack, or he’s starting to cry again. In this case, it’s the latter. “I just want to feel you breathing. The cosmonauts will be here soon and they’re going to take you away… and… I don’t feel safe when you’re not with me.”

“I know… but you are. Nobody here’s going to hurt you, and they won’t let you get hurt either. If they _do_ let you get hurt then I’ll make them sorry as soon as I get back.”

“But what if you don’t come back?”

“I will.”

“How do I know?”

“Because I love you. I wouldn’t ever leave you here by yourself if I have a choice.”

Brad kisses his temple again, then the spot behind his ear. “I love you so much.”

“It’s going to be okay, Brad. I’ll probably only be gone for a few weeks at the most. They’ll do procedures on me and stuff over there, then I’ll come back with a bunch of big ugly scars and yours won’t seem so bad anymore.”

“No big ugly scars,” Brad demands. “You’re pretty and you need to stay pretty.”

“Oh good, he did exactly what we told him not to do,” a voice interrupts.

“Are you surprised?”

“I figured Bergy would’ve stopped him, actually.”

Krej and Backes appear on the other side of the plastic, wearing textbook disappointed-but-not-surprised expressions. With them is Zhenya, who looks confused. Right, he’s a cosmonaut, he doesn’t understand the concept of gay.

“I was told you have one patient.”

“One, yes,” Backes nods. “Also - idiot.”

“I see. And Patrik is the one coming with us?”

“Yes. Stay here Bradley with us, get filled by antibiotics,” Backes growls.

“I tried to stop him,” Patrice offers.

He feels Brad nod behind him. “Yeah, he did. I’m just a dumbass.”

“Alright, enough,” Krej breaks in. “We have samples for you… there seems to be a significant amount of pus in his sputum, we’d like that looked at as well.”

“I see. Andreshka and Sasha will mostly be dealing with this, I’m only looking for the presence of microorganisms…  if you have his suit brought, we can leave for _Vtoroy Institut_ as soon as the samples are packaged.”

“Perfect. Backy, since your Russian sucks, you go grab Bergy’s stuff for him and I’ll deal with Zhenya and the idiot.”

“Yes, alright.”

“So the samples and the attached report are with Rask in the lab, you go down the hall, take a right and then the second left,” Krej directs. As soon as Zhenya’s out of the infirmary, he switches back to English and glares at Brad. “You do realize you’ll be stuck in there for the next week, right?”

“I don’t care.”

“Of course you don’t, why would you? It’s only your life and safety, those things aren’t important.”

“Neither of you are helping,” Patrice interrupts. “Aren’t you married, Krej?”

“…yes.”

“If it was Naomi in here, wouldn’t you do the same thing?”

“Probably.”

“Then leave Brad alone.”

“It’s still against protocol.”

“I know, like I said, I tried to stop him. Give us a couple more minutes.”

“Fine.” Krej disappears into Dima’s office.

“Try not to have too many panic attacks while I’m gone, okay? Save them until I get back so I can snuggle you through them.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise.” Brad nuzzles the back of Patrice’s head. “For real, what if you die?”

“I wrote a document for you on one of Krej’s iPads. Read the whole thing, copy it to your laptop, and then go straight home and don’t come back.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Brad.” Patrice stops to cough. “It’s really important.”

“I said okay, I believe you.”

“Good.” He sinks against his fiancé and sighs a little. “I’ll do my best to not die, though, I promise.”

Brad sighs into his hair, so Patrice tips his head back further in order to get kissed, not realizing the implications of what he’s doing until it’s already happening. Brad’s going to get sick, too. But… it’s also been about a day and a half since he’s gotten to kiss Brad, and they’re going to be separate for who knows how long, not able to even talk to each other. That’s such a painful idea, and Patrice knows it’s even worse for his fiancé than it is for him, so he tries not to think about the fact that he’s probably contagious and just enjoys the sensation. They both need this.

Settling again, Patrice catches movement in the corner of his eye and sees Zhenya there. Great. Now on top of everything they’re going to get reported.

“You should be more careful,” the cosmonaut warns. “Dima got in trouble for this very thing on his last assignment, it’s why he and Ilya got separated.”

“Would they be able to separate us? We’re an international mission,” Patrice points out, surprised by Zhenya’s apparent acceptance.

“I’m not sure. I won’t say anything, but others might.”

“You guys aren’t usually super okay with this,” Brad remarks.

Zhenya sighs and something miserable flits across his face for the most split of split seconds. “I’ve seen what happens to people who end up with someone who refuses to love them the way they deserve… so when I then see people who _do_ love each other, I won’t stop them. Dimochka and Ilyusha shouldn’t have been punished, but Roscosmos was very upset with this idea. They’re lucky they weren’t removed from the project altogether.” He gives them a smile that’s a little too grim. “But you love your idiot, Patrik.”

“I do, and he’s definitely my idiot,” Patrice chuckles.

“An entire oxygen can, Pat.”

“Stop it, we’re not talking about that.”

“I’m just saying, you’re kind of an idiot too.”

“Whatever.” It’s weird to hold a conversation that throws bits of English in with the Russian, but Brad’s Russian is still pretty bad and not likely to improve at this point. “Zhenya, weren’t you getting all my bloodwork and everything?”

“Your biologist is packaging the samples and paperwork, it may be a few minutes before everything’s ready. Andreshka also wanted me to get a report from David on the onset of your symptoms.”

Patrice assumes he means Krej. “I woke up coughing with a fever at about 04:45 this morning. Before that I was fine.”

“Yes, he said so.”

“What can I expect being over there?”

“We’re first going to determine whether you’re contagious, and afterwards there will be a number of further samples that need to be taken. Max may want to look inside your lungs, so it may need to happen that you don’t eat past a certain point in the evening so that he can do the procedure. Andreshka will probably do an assessment of your respiratory distress and determine your treatment from there. We have a very good medical team, I believe we’ll be able to return you to your idiot in one piece.”

“Why am I the idiot? This is the second time he’s almost gotten his ass killed, I’ve only done it once,” Brad protests.

“Because you’re in a quarantine box with no mask after literally everyone told you not to,” Patrice answers. Really, though, he’s just glad Brad’s not freaking out at the moment.

Backes appears, carrying parts of Patrice’s suit while Jake trails behind him lugging the rest of it. Patrice feels a wave of nervousness overtake him - this is actually happening, he’s about to go to _Vtoroy Institut_ for an unknown illness and he may even die there surrounded by Russian scientists he barely knows. It’s a horrible thought.

“You’re all tensed up,” Brad whispers, so quietly Patrice almost doesn’t hear him.

“I’m really scared.”

“Me, too.”

“Come on, Bergy,” Backes prompts.

After reluctantly getting up from the cot, he’s first dressed in a new pair of paper scrubs with a procedure mask, then allowed out of quarantine to don his suit. The movements are mechanical and practiced, which only gives Patrice more room to think about how awful this situation really is. He hates that Brad might get sick because of him, but on the other hand he also hates that he’s leaving Brad here alone. Snapping down his helmet, it feels like an abandonment no matter how much he didn’t actually choose for this to happen.

“We’re going to take good care of him,” Zhenya promises, and even though it’s directed at everyone in the room Patrice still feels like it was meant for Brad more than them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so... remember in an earlier chapter's notes how I said I would avoid giving one or both of them actual PTSD? Apparently I was wrong, because Brad is definitely falling headfirst into that particular hell. THIS FIC WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THIS ANGSTY I SWEAR.


	18. First Week of January - Friday

Regaining consciousness after anesthesia isn’t the same as waking up from sleep. It’s more like remembering how to be aware - Patrice remembers how to hear first, and it takes a second for him to also remember that Russian is a thing. About the same time is when he realizes his eyes are open and that he feels like he’s drowning.

“Patrik?” Andreshka leans into his sight, which is good because actually moving his eyes is just too hard right now. “How are you?”

“Thirsty… can’t breathe…”

“Alright, that’s normal. We’re going to wait a little bit to see if your respiratory distress eases up on its own, and if it doesn’t you’ll start on oxygen. Max is still writing up the report on your procedure, but you did well, there were no complications. You can eat now, too, in a few minutes when you’re more awake.”

Patrice nods slightly against his pillow - that’s really all he can do. Then he’s coughing so hard he almost throws up and Andreshka lifts his head for him after so he can drool pus and mucus into a kidney basin. Apparently what that actually is is dead white blood cells, which have built up in his lungs in response to whatever gave him this infection.

“What kind of food?”

“How about a health salad and some sandwiches? Or we may have soup, I believe.”

“Soup. Soup would be good.”

“Alright. When it gets brought, try not to eat so fast, you may be nauseous from the anesthesia. Would you like some good news?”

“Yeah.”

“With the quick onset of your symptoms, it really looks like you’re not contagious because none of the lab animals have been showing signs of infection. If they remain healthy through tomorrow, you may be allowed to leave quarantine.”

Patrice thinks of Brad, in the plastic box and kissing him. He smiles. “That’s great news.” He’s back to desperately hacking after that, dragging more sticky yellowish gunk out of his exhausted lungs. Patrice wishes he could take a break from breathing, it’s too hard. “I really can’t breathe, it feels like I’m suffocating again…”

“Yes, I understand. Give it a little bit, though.”

“My lungs are tired.”

“Yes, I know. Please be patient, Patrik, we need to be careful with your treatments.”

Patrice’s eyes close again and the next thing he knows is Max changing his IV bag.

“Have a nice nap?”

Patrice tries to answer but coughs instead. He’s so, so sick of coughing and it’s only been a couple of days. “How did I do?”

“The procedure went fine… there’s a significant amount of fluid buildup, which is exacerbating your respiratory distress. Since your breathing isn’t clearing up on its own we’ll have you started on oxygen in a few minutes… I didn’t think it would, but we had to be sure. We’re waiting on a piece of specialist equipment to arrive, and once it does you’ll have another procedure.”

“For what?”

“Generally, this would be to suction the fluid out to relieve this distress. It seems very possible there is debris trapped in your lung tissue and that’s what’s causing your illness, so this debris might also be removed with the procedure. But… the supply drops, I’m sure you know, don’t arrive for two more weeks.”

“Really? It’s only once a month at _Dacha._ ”

“Yes. So, you’ll be under our care here for that time. Right now, I don’t have the tools for this procedure.” Max looks at something on the monitor and scribbles briefly on his clipboard. “Your O-sat isn’t very good, I’m going to grab a cannula.”

This translates to one of those plastic tubes with the two little prongs getting stuffed into his nostrils, but after a couple of minutes he starts to feel slightly less awful. He wonders, dimly, how much crap is really in his lungs that Max could see. Probably a lot, it seems like a lot every time he starts coughing. At least with the oxygen he’s not gasping for air anymore. He feels a little too warm from the fever and he’ll have to get up soon to piss from constantly being on an IV, but compared to feeling like his chest will implode at any moment those are small problems.

Andreshka comes over and they start talking around him, but that’s fine. He’s okay with just sitting and listening for awhile.

“He’s on oxygen for now… if this continues we may need to intubate him and put him on a ventilator, he’s already complaining about his lungs feeling tired.”

“We should avoid that for as long as we can. If he goes on a ventilator he might not come off it again, it’s generally a bad sign for patients and sometimes causes even more damage. Physically, he’s not weak. It’s possible he may learn to tolerate the distress until your equipment arrives, it would be more desirable.”

“But he may not learn to tolerate it. The distress will further weaken him and produce a less favorable outcome after the procedure, especially with the fever.”

“Yes… his colleagues will be here tomorrow to collect the first set of data, it could be a good idea to ask them since they’re more familiar with him.”

“One of them is also a surgeon, right?”

“Yes… but both of them are named David, it’s very confusing.” Andreshka finally decides to include him. “Patrik, which one of your colleagues is collecting your data?”

“Krej, he’s an emergency physician… can I ask something?”

“Alright.”

“What did you find inside my lungs?”

Max takes a breath. “Evidence of chemical pneumonia… something has irritated the tissue, causing abscesses to form. However these seem to be rupturing and filling your lung cavities with pus. So, you have a slightly unusual type of pulmonary edema… we knew it was something like that, though, after the x-ray from yesterday. But it does explain the traces of blood we saw in your sputum. These are dangerous to you for several reasons, so during the procedure to suction out the pus from the burst ones the unburst abscesses will also have to be drained. Until that can happen, we’ll be giving you steroids and bronchodilators to ease your breathing as well as the oxygen.”

Patrice nods. “And that’s in two weeks?”

“Yes, when the supply drop comes. It’s likely you’ll be out of quarantine by then, too, which will be more comfortable for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I hope there are no medical students reading this. I'm waving my artistic license a little that there's something in the dirt on Mars that would cause such a sudden and violent reaction in human lung tissue. Also the procedure he wakes up from at the beginning was Maksim stuffing a laparoscopic camera into his lungs to see what was going on.


	19. Second Week of January

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple hours early. Enjoy.

Patrice has slowly been losing track of time since he got sick… he knows it’s been more than five days since he came to Second Institute, but how many days past five is a detail he can’t find. He knows Krej will be here again today, but that’s only because Andreshka told him at breakfast. There’s also been discussions about how his fever is up to thirty nine degrees. He can’t eat anymore because his chest pain makes him nauseous, so they give him different kinds of IVs that have vitamins and nutrients. He’ll sip water if his mouth gets too dry, but he tries not to do that because if he starts coughing it could make him choke.

It’s really surprising that Backes’ face is the one that swims into view. His eyes have been watering a lot from coughing too hard.

“Hey, Bergy.”

“Where’s Krej?” Patrice croaks. It’s such a relief to speak English.

“He stayed at _Dacha_ today, I’m going to help do your surgery in a couple days so I came over to check things out first.”

“Brad?”

“He misses you.”

“I miss him, too.”

“I know you do. It won’t be too long until you come back, though. Maybe a week to recover from the procedure and then they’re sending you back to us if your lungs are cleared up.”

Patrice is about to start coughing when something happens behind his ribs - almost immediately, he’s sure that his left lung has exploded inside his chest.

“Oh, god,” Patrice whimpers, hugging himself and rolling onto his side. “Oh, god, that’s bad…”

He does cough, now, and it’s like a kitchen knife being jammed between his ribs each time. It hurts so much that he can’t spit, so he just drools blood all over the sheet because moving or thinking or doing anything at all is impossible. All he can do now is lie there and cry, and that just makes it hurt even worse.

Someone’s hands are all over him, moving him around on the bed so that he’s back to lying face up. He thinks it’s Backes, but he can’t be sure, his eyes won’t stay open. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and it hurts when he tries.

“What happened?”

“He coughs blood and cries, very sudden. I hear the lungs - they crackle. Very sudden. Why, don’t understand.”

“Patrik, talk to us.”

“It hurts,” he whines between sobs.

“Okay, where does it hurt, can you point with your fingers to show us?”

Patrice’s arms shake when he tries to move them. Eventually he manages to tap the right spot on his ribs.

“Max, we need to take him for an x-ray.”

“I agree, but afterwards you should put him on the ventilator, he could go into respiratory failure.”

“We’ll talk about that after the radiography. David, speak to him for a moment, I’ll get him a sedative.”

“Bergy, try to breathe slower, Andreshka’s getting you some lorazepam. They’re going to take x-rays of your chest to see what’s going on, hopefully they’ll be able to do something about it.”

“I can’t breathe.” Patrice isn’t sure how he manages to say that, but hopefully they actually believe him this time. He’s been trying to tell them for days and nobody’s listened so far.

He thinks something gets injected into his IV line, and slowly the pain seems less bad… not because it’s going away, but because he’s stopped caring about it as much. He’s still coughing blood and pus, he still can’t breathe, but it doesn’t seem as important as it did a few seconds ago. The three doctors unlock his bed and wheel him to the other side of the dome where their x-ray machine is, then load him into it and start taking pictures.

“Andrey Aleksandrovich, I know you’re nervous to put him on the ventilator, but I don’t see what else you can do for him now. He’s at risk for ARDS and complete respiratory failure if this continues. In order for me to operate on him when the equipment gets here, he does still have to be alive.”

“Yes… I was hoping to avoid this as long as possible. Complications may appear and further damage his lungs.”

“I understand, but it’s only four days.”

Andreshka sighs. “Patrik won’t be happy waking up with a tube stuffed into his throat, of course.”

Listening to this, Patrice doesn’t actually care about having a tube down his throat. He just wants to be able to breathe again. He’s in the middle of yet another round of breathless hacking when they move him back onto his bed, and while they’re moving he turns his head to the side so that all the blood can run out of his mouth. Briefly it occurs to him that he probably could’ve swallowed it, but he doesn’t want to.

Something gets put into his IV again and Patrice forgets that he’s in pain at all. His bed is floating away somewhere, his eyes can’t find the lights in the ceiling. Someone’s playing with his mouth. He’s not interested in that. Mostly it feels like he’s tired but not quite asleep, or like he’s daydreaming really deeply. He thinks of _Dacha,_ of blue-packaged IRPs and golden-yellow pressure suits. He imagines thermite flares into his vision somehow, so much that he can almost touch them with his fingers. Then… then he remembers Brad, his fiancé, and he needs to cry some more but he can’t. He misses Brad so much. He wishes Brad was here with him, holding his hand.

Eventually, the world starts making sense again… at least a little. Because as full consciousness returns the pain comes with it, and now on top of that there’s something in his mouth that he can’t swallow so that he’s choking but not at the same time. And he still misses Brad so much that it’s almost enough to distract him from the fact that his lungs clearly need to just be taken out and replaced altogether at this point.

Andreshka’s here with him, now, watching over him. Andreshka always watches over him these days.

“We intubated you for a ventilator, it’s a machine to help you breathe. Hopefully you won’t need it for very long. From zero to ten, ten being the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your life, how much does it still hurt? Show me on your fingers.”

Patrice holds up eight digits. It’s not quite as bad as it was when his lung popped under his chest earlier, but it’s still pretty awful.

“Alright. We’re going to keep giving you medicine to help you relax, but if the tube is really bothering you or your pain gets suddenly worse, start clapping your hands and we’ll see what we can do.”

Patrice wants to know - what about painkillers, how will he ask for things he needs. But there’s a tube in his throat, now. All he can do is nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if anyone who actually knows anything about internal medicine or lung surgery is reading this.


	20. Third Week of January

His throat’s really dry.

Patrice can hear them… not what they’re saying, but their voices. He doesn’t really care about that. His throat’s dry and he’s so, so thirsty. His chest hurts. It hurts to breathe. Vaguely, he remembers that that’s not new, but… it’s a little different from before. This is a different brand of pain.

When his eyes open, the rest of his hearing comes back at the same time. There’s a beeping monitor near his head and four voices.

“In two days he’ll have a chest radiography to see if the fluid has started to accumulate again. If it hasn’t, then two days after that Max will put him under and take a look to see how he’s healing. The ruptured abscesses have been repaired, but they’re still at some risk of infection, so we’re pursuing antibiotics as a prophylaxis for seven days. If everything turns out well, once that cycle has ended, he may return to _Dacha._ ”

“And fluid - also the debris, it has removed as well?”

“I’m confident most of it has been removed… Sasha said there was particulate matter in the material when he tested it. The chemical composition of the soil in combination with ultraviolet radiation is possibly responsible for this reaction. I’ll write a full report, hopefully we’ll have more answers.”

“It probably has to do with the tissue being sensitive. When one of our other colleagues was exposed, he had no reaction despite taking an open wound to his skin.”

“It’s an interesting case for medical science… we’ve had suit ruptures here as well, and proceeded with the cycles of various antibiotics. Not once has this occurred. Unfortunately for Patrik he’ll have to undergo continuous reevaluations to the state of his respiratory organs, even at home. He’s at risk for pulmonary fibrosis and further health effects. So, very interesting for us, but very uncomfortable for him.”

“When back at _Dacha,_ how long to go before restrictions can lift on his work?”

“I think… Max, what do you think?”

“For the sutures, the risk of tearing will mostly be gone by the point where he can go back to your complex.”

“After placement of a ventilator, there may still be some difficulty breathing for him for awhile. He should be on complete restrictions for a minimum of six weeks, then placed on time and distance restrictions both for two months following that. For another six weeks, there should probably still be time restrictions, but the distance restriction may be loosened. Afterwards he should return here for x-rays and reevaluation by us. I would also recommend that until the restrictions may be lifted completely, he shouldn’t be allowed on field assignments more than once or twice per week.”

Patrice coughs weakly and realizes as he does that the tube isn’t there anymore. Faces appear around him - two Russians, a Czech, and an American. The face he really wants to see is Canadian.

“How do you feel, Bergy?”

“Thirsty.” He can only whisper. His mouth is a strange combination of sticky and dry. “Brad…?”

“Brad’s at _Dacha,_ don’t worry. He’s going to be very happy when we tell him how well your surgery went.”

“My lung popped a few days ago…”

“No, one of your alveoli ruptured after an abscess developed there. That’s why there was so much blood coming out of your mouth,” Max explains. “The capillaries burst. You’re lucky there wasn’t more damage than that, I was able to sew it back up for you.”

“It still hurts when I breathe…”

“Yes, it’s going to for a few more days, but hopefully it stops after that. Your colleagues were very helpful at assisting me, so you’ll have to tell us how we did when you’re feeling better.”

Patrice nods. “Okay. Can I have some water?”

“Yes, we’ll get some for you. It’s likely you’ll be able to eat again with the ventilator gone as well. Now… while Andreshka gets your water, what number is your pain?”

“Five. Or maybe six. Not as bad as it was before you knocked me out.”

“Excellent.”

The head of the bed is raised by Backes so that Patrice can take sips of the water that’s placed in his hand. He’s starting to feel hot and uncomfortable again, so his fever must still be there. At least here in _Vtoroy Institut_ he gets to wear blue stripy pajamas instead of disposable paper scrubs. He wishes Brad was here… he wants to get snuggled.

Patrice doesn’t realize he’s falling asleep until he wakes up again, and by the time that happens Krej and Backes have both left. He’s not sure what time it is, he needs more water, he’s covered in sweat and he misses Brad so much he starts crying. He’s pretty sure it’s been almost two and a half weeks and the loss of contact is unbearable. One of Andreshka’s subordinates fusses over him for a moment, helping him into dry pajamas and stuffing chemical cold packs under his armpits before getting water. That means it’s probably sometime in the early morning and Andreshka’s sleeping, but if Patrice has some kind of emergency the “orderly” will run off to get him.

“Is your pain getting worse?”

“No.”

“Alright… you look like you’re in distress.”

“It’s nothing. I’m bored, is there anything to read around here?”

The cosmonaut pokes around for a moment before finding an iPad, then pulls something up on it. “If the screen locks, the number is 9524.”

And so, in place of sleeping, Patrice reads to distract himself from the ache of Brad’s absence. He learns about the early days of this project, when only Roscosmos was here with one small complex and some rovers. Twenty cosmonauts built five solar farms in just under a year so that more could arrive to make other complexes. One had to be evacuated for medical problems - the idea that they were the only humans on this tiny ball of dust, and that he was trapped with them for twelve months, became too much. He hurt himself on purpose and was sent home after the fifth month. Second Institute was completed in stages - the first three domes were put up at once, then the other four successively. Third Institute and Shelter were put in place on the lower hemisphere around the same time the seventh dome was constructed, and then _Dacha_ was last. _Ukritye_ is even smaller than _Dacha,_ housing five scientists from ESA, and _Tretiy Institut_ has twenty eight astronauts from NASA.

Patrice gets bored with this. He ends up playing with the iPad and finds a program that enables the user to draw with a finger… and so repeatedly scribbles _I miss Brad_ in French until he runs out of space. After that he finally sleeps again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, you haven't seen the last of the angst...


	21. First Week of February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My house lost power last night, which means no internet. Since I'm currently in another location that *does* have internet, I'm posting this chapter two days early because I have no idea when the power will come back.

“Alright, once Andreshka is done with your last set of x-rays we can return you to your complex. In the meantime, this is everything we saw and did if you’d like to look,” Max offers, holding out a clipboard with a thin pack of paper in it.

“Thanks.”

Patrice accepts it and starts reading - abscesses, chemical pneumonia, yes he knows all this already. There’s a brief conclusion drawn between the composition of superoxides in the soil and his lung injuries. Charts detailing the progression of said injuries, including a description of the ruptured alveolus in his upper left lung. Finally, a detailed report on the surgery to drain the abscesses and suction the fluid out. This part’s written by the minute, and Patrice doesn’t know what some of the words are because he didn’t take medical vocabulary in his Russian language classes during college.

Then, halfway through the list, a phrase jumps out at him: _respiratory and cardiac arrest._ Patrice crashed on the operating table and was medically dead for two and a half minutes. They shocked him and managed to jump him again with adrenalin. Reading that, understanding what it means, makes him feel like he’s been punched in the sternum. He wishes he could unsee this somehow, because it terrifies him. They almost lost him forever while they were trying to fix his lungs.

“Max, can I have a copy of this?”

“Of course, you can take that one if you like… you look ill, Patrik.”

“Nobody told me that I died on the table.”

“You didn’t, you’re still here talking with me.”

“I went into arrest…”

“You did. Your colleague, the American one, acted quickly enough to bring you back. What else would you like me to say about this? It’s always a risk present in procedures that need anesthesia. We all know it can happen. You’re lucky we could turn it back again.”

“It would’ve been nice to know before now.”

“No it wouldn’t.” Max shakes his head. “You would still be upset to hear it.”

Glancing back to the clipboard, Patrice’s eyes find the gold wire wrapped around his finger. “Br-my fiancé’s going to be upset, too…”

“Yes, but how many months until you return and see her again? Why should she hear about this in the first place? You’re alive, all your body parts are in place. How would she know unless you tell her?”

It’d be a good point, except that Patrice is a terrible liar and he knows he won’t be able to keep this secret from Brad. Especially since Brad just knows him too well. His fiancé will sense, somehow, that something’s really bothering him and then he’ll be pestered about it relentlessly until he caves.

It stays in his head for the next hour or so before Andreshka comes back with his final set of chest x-rays, all of them showing clear lungs. He can go back to _Dacha_ now, probably in time for dinner. He’s given a last injection of painkillers before he changes from the pajamas to his coverall, then led to the airlock so he can put on his suit. Very randomly, he checks the seal on the snap-joint where his air hose meets his helmet even though he knows there’s no way it got broken again in the last month.

Clad in his pressure suit, Patrice already feels tired just from crossing the airlock and climbing into the MPC, but he kind of expected that - Andreshka told him he’ll be weak for a little while from lying still for so long. It reminds him of going home after his first mission, how for the first three weeks or so he and Brad were constantly fainting if they got up too fast or stood and walked too much. Sitting again is a relief, and it takes him a second to remember that he needs to plug himself into the vehicle’s oxygen.

Andreshka rides back with him, which aside from needing to deliver the final medical reports to Krej is basically pointless - as long as Patrice has to wear his suit, nothing can really be done if something happens to him. For most of the trip, Patrice lies across the seats and dozes so that he can avoid thinking about how horrible it’ll be when Brad finds out he almost died.

The last ten minutes or so is spent in a state of nervousness - what if he gets back to _Dacha_ only to have another medical emergency in a couple days and be forced to return to _Vtoroy Institut_ for more surgery? What if Brad’s had a catastrophic mental breakdown and got sent home a couple days ago when he was still tied to an IV bag of doxycycline? What if-

“Patrik, the vehicle doesn’t go inside with us.” Andreshka taps on his arm to get his attention.

“Oh.”

Patrice manages the short walk from the back of the MPC to the airlock, somehow resisting the urge to sit while he’s deconed. He directs Andreshka to the infirmary before pulling off his pressure suit, stacking it in his wall locker with less care than usual and slipping his feet into his boots. He leans on the wall for a couple of minutes to catch his breath before heading down the hall, and the first people he run into are Charlie and Jake.

“Bergy! Hey!” Jake grins and hugs him. “Long time no see, man, we were starting to think-”

He’s cut off when Charlie elbows him in the ribs. “Is the food still good over there?”

“The IV bags are very tasty,” Patrice nods. “Where’s Brad?”

“Not sure… MARCHY! We have something for you!” Charlie yells down the hall.

“Oh, fuck off, Chuckie,” comes a miserable response shouted from somewhere.

“Are you sure? It’s something we know you’ll like,” Jake calls, obviously trying not to giggle and give them away as they start walking in the direction of Brad’s voice - either the cafeteria or the rec area.

“Okay, seriously, both of you can fuck the fuck off, I’m not in the mood.”

They find him in the rec area, curled into a ball on the couch. Patrice is really unhappy to see that Brad hasn’t been taking care of himself, as evidenced by the fact that he clearly hasn’t shaved in two weeks and he’s lying there in his boxers and undershirt instead of being fully dressed. Patrice doesn’t really have room to talk since his own beard is longer than when he left, but it doesn’t look good on Brad like it does on him.

Putting his palm on Brad’s shoulder is a mistake, because Brad takes less than a second to look and see who it is before jumping up and vaulting over the back of the couch to tackle him. Both of them go crashing to the floor in a heap and Patrice is left coughing. He makes a hand motion for Charlie and Jake to please leave, and the moment they’re gone Brad’s bawling into his chest. Patrice has usually only seen children cry this way, in a manner that completely consumes them like there’s nothing left in the world but this one action, and usually it’s when they’re suffering some kind of horrendous injury like a fractured limb. At least it doesn’t last very long. After a couple minutes Brad’s downgraded to heaving, body-wracking sobs instead. Patrice can only lie there and hold him until he calms down.

Patrice expects Brad to say something about being glad he’s back, being glad he’s alive. What he gets instead: “You smell bad, Pat.”

Patrice cracks up immediately and in seconds is in full-blown hysterics. He laughs until he can’t breathe, and then he laughs some more. Eventually he stops so that he can gasp for air - this was just about the worst possible thing for him after having lung surgery a week ago.

“Well, you look bad, so we’re even,” he finally manages to get out.

Brad rubs his face dry in Patrice’s clothes. “Krej said you had surgery and parts of your lungs got sewn up.”

“Yeah, there were blisters in there that kept popping.”

“I wish I was there with you.”

“No, Brad, that would’ve been a really bad idea. It’s a good thing you weren’t there, I was in a lot of pain and it would’ve freaked you out. They had to stick tubes in my mouth to help me breathe, it was really awful and I’m glad you didn’t have to see any of that.”

“No, Pat, this fucking sucked so bad, okay? Krej came back every time and all he would say is ‘Bergy’s still alive.’ Besides that I had no idea what was going on for you and it was driving me up a fucking wall.”

Patrice rubs his back through his shirt. He takes in Brad’s behavior and thinks - this isn’t his fiancé. This fear, this constant alertness and overwhelmed body language… this isn’t Brad. These things don’t belong to Brad, instead Brad is owned by them now. His Brad is always smiling and joking about things, maybe a little too self confident, yelling and laughing louder than most people find acceptable. When did Brad get taken over by this illness? Was it the first accident or the second one? Did it finally click into place just now, when Patrice needed x-rays and procedures for a life-threatening injury, or was this a set path from the start? And most importantly, how can he find his Brad again? The sweet, thoughtful guy who really wanted to make Patrice a birthday cake from scratch but didn’t know how, who had no way of getting an engagement ring and so improvised one, who’s so warm and full of love that just standing nearby makes Patrice feel like he’s wearing a blanket. How does Patrice find him, now, when he’s buried inside his own head under a landslide of anxieties and gut-wrenching bad dreams?

Patrice doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Brad’s thumbs are rubbing his cheeks to wipe away the tears.

“What’s wrong, Pat?”

Patrice shakes his head and lets Brad pull him up into a sitting position. “Everything.”

He doesn’t know how else he can answer. Everything is wrong. He’s still coughing and short of breath, the man he loves more than life itself is cripplingly sick but barely realizes it. All of that is just… wrong. For the first time since he became an astronaut, Patrice suddenly and desperately wants to go home - and that’s wrong, too.

Brad keeps wiping his face for him. “Tell me…”

Patrice hates the tiny, broken noise that escapes before he finds words again. “I just-” He hiccups and then sobs. “Brad - you can’t freak out when I tell you this.”

“What?”

“I almost didn’t-didn’t make it through surgery, and nobody even told me until this afternoon before I came back. I stopped breathing on the table and they had to shock me back, and… and nobody told me. When I woke up they just said everything went great. I was-I was medically dead for two minutes and thirty seven seconds, and… oh my god, I broke my promise.” He can’t breathe, and it’s kind of like a coughing fit except he’s crying instead of hacking up a lung. It’s making him lightheaded and tired.

“What? What promise?”

“Remember? I promised-I promised you I wouldn’t die. That I wouldn’t go to Second Institute and then die. But I kind of did.”

Now it’s Brad’s turn to hold him while he cries for awhile. It’s all they can do - the situation isn’t fixable.

Patrice wants to go home. He wants to go home, to where Brad’s not afraid of everything, to where they can get married and spend their honeymoon on a beach somewhere, to where dust storms aren’t potentially deadly threats that last for months on end, to where he won’t have to wait almost three weeks if he needs another life-saving surgery done. Patrice loves his job but he’s also had enough of this planet doing everything it can to kill both of them. He wants real food and visits with his parents. He wants ten hour drives from Quebec City to Halifax. He wants Netflix reruns and tickets to Bruins games and trips to the store, any big or small thing that’s done on earth but is simply impossible up here on Mars. Patrice wants those things so badly but he can’t have them, not for another fifteen months.

As he sits on the floor and sobs into Brad’s shoulder, Patrice remembers what he read on the iPad when he was too sick to sleep well. He suddenly thinks he can understand, now, why that cosmonaut tried to commit suicide.


	22. Second Week of February

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple hours early because I'm impatient... don't judge me.

It’s been nine days, now, and Patrice is sick of everyone - _everyone_ \- still looking at him like they think he’ll drop dead at any second. Brad does it, but he expected that. Krej does it, that worries him. Vadik does it, it annoys him. Then he notices Z and Bruce doing it, too, and he kind of wants to punch them for it before immediately feeling ashamed of himself for thinking that. It’s in this moment that Patrice realizes something’s wrong inside his head.

“Bergy? Why are you here, Marchy’s not supposed to come until after lunch.”

“I need to talk,” he mumbles, watching the floor as he comes into Dima’s office. He closes the door behind him and sits. “Everyone seems like they think I’m made out of glass, now. It’s bothering me.”

Dima nods and reaches for his clipboard. “I see. Who in particular do you get this impression from?”

“Everyone except you.” He doesn’t add that it’s because Dima never leaves the infirmary these days. Being rude to the one person who might be able to help him is a terrible idea.

“Patrice, please be honest with me when I ask this, but have you experienced mood changes since your injury?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You’ve been less of an active participant in Marchy’s therapy the last few days. I know you just got back, but even so. Is this lack of interest because you’re still physically tired, or for other reasons?”

“I…” Patrice stops and really thinks about that question. “Dima, he’s so sick. He doesn’t even know how bad he’s gotten anymore, and… I don’t know, I can’t think straight right now. Sometimes that’s on my mind, but other times it’s about how I arrested during surgery. I can’t get that out of my head. I’ve been kind of homesick, too, and… something’s wrong with me. I don’t know what it is, I just feel _wrong_ right now.”

Dima nods patiently. “First of all, you should know it’s good that you came to talk right away instead of letting this sit. These feelings you’re having, this disorganized thinking, might not be related to your injury recovery and could be something very serious. But it’s also a bit early to be drawing conclusions. So, for the next few weeks while you’re still on complete restrictions and can’t be sent on field assignments, I want you to keep track of these feelings and thoughts as closely as you can. I’ll steal a notebook from Vadik for you to do it with and once that term is expired we’ll go through everything together and take closer looks.”

“Okay.”

“It’s also quite possible you’ll begin feeling normal again shortly. This may only be a temporary affect.” He shuffles around some stacks of paper on his desk and plucks one up to look at it. “They’ve taken you off the pain medications two days ago… did this start before then?”

“Yeah.”

“Do your lungs hurt?”

“Not really, only if I’ve been walking around a lot.”

“I see. And how has your sleep been?”

“Bad, but that’s Brad’s fault. He won’t sleep and while he’s busy not sleeping he also doesn’t hold still.”

“Why do you not sleep in separate bunks?”

“You do realize who we’re talking about. His nightmares are worse if he sleeps by himself.”

“But Bergy, that’s not your responsibility. His problems are now impacting your physical and mental health. I know you love him and you want to help, but this isn’t helping. You’re enabling his anxiety and it’s affecting you. This has to stop.”

“Then what am I going to do when we go home and get married, kick him out of my bed?”

“A bed at home in a house is much larger than a bunk here at _Dacha._ Don’t do this all at once, taper him off. But it needs to stop, at least until his insomnia is resolved. I know you probably hate me for saying so, but trust me when I say that doing this isn’t helping Marchy nearly as much as you think it is. And he’s not selfish. If you explain to him that his behavior is disruptive-”

“No, I’m not doing that,” Patrice decides. “You can tell him that, but I won’t. I’m not going to make him feel even worse than usual by saying that something he does hurts me even if it’s true. I’m the only thing that makes him feel safe… don’t make me take that away from him.”

“You’re the only thing that makes him feel safe…?”

Dima’s looking at him in a way that makes him feel like he just made a huge mistake by saying that.

“What?”

“Did he say this himself?”

“More or less.”

“That’s very bad.”

“I thought you knew.”

“I suspected. It’s still bad. You understand Marchy is presenting a classic case of post traumatic stress disorder at this point. The best thing for him would be evacuation back to earth.”

“Yes! Good! Please do that!” Patrice shouts, completely free of irony.

“I can’t. He belongs to my study, and my study belongs to Roscosmos. I can revoke the experiment if Bradley tries to hurt himself, but besides that my options for terminating it are very limited.”

“Okay, but what if he does try that?” Patrice demands. “There has to be something you can do, Dima.”

“I’ll send an inquiry about grounds for halting the study. There may be something I haven’t thought of… there was once a cosmonaut who attempted suicide at _Perviy Institut_.”

“I know, I read about that when I was away… actually that’s been bothering me, too. I don’t think he wanted to die. He just wanted to go home.”

“Why does that bother you? Do you identify with that motive for self harm?”

“A little. But I can’t go home until Brad can. It’d be like leaving him naked somewhere.”

“Krej has had a few discussions with me on this very topic. He thinks you should both be sent back on medical grounds.”

“He’s right.”

“Roscosmos needs specifics, otherwise they’ll see an evacuation as an expensive waste and everyone involved will be punished somehow.”

Patrice deflates. He doesn’t want his colleagues to get in trouble because of him… and it seems like there’s no way to help Brad right now as a result.

“So now what?”

“Like I said, I’ll send an inquiry. And you’re going to catalogue your feelings in a notebook.” Dima gets up and goes into Vadik’s desk, coming up with a brand new one that has a bright red cover. “You don’t have to keep precise times, just the date. It’s probably a good idea not to explain this exercise to Marchy if you think it’ll add to his emotional burden, just tell him you’re keeping track of something related to your recovery… it’s even true, in a sense.”

“Okay.”

Dima uses a marker to scrawl _Патрик Бержерон_ on the front, probably to differentiate it from all of Vadik’s notebooks full of data, then hands it over. “It’s almost lunch, so you should go eat, but we can talk more about this after Marchy’s done with me.”

Patrice brings his new notebook with him to the cafeteria. Charlie and Vadik are already there, tearing open their food packages.

“Where’s Jake?”

“Out with Pasta, there was some rover trouble. So he’ll probably be back by dinner. What about your louder half? I haven’t seen him all morning.”

“He’s still taking a nap, he hasn’t been sleeping very well. Actually I should go get him,” Patrice realizes, standing back up from his chair.

Coming to Brad’s bunk, Patrice feels conflicted - he’s been insomniac lately, so should he be woken from a nap? Then again naps aren’t exempt from nightmares either. Brad needs to eat. Patrice lightly shakes his shoulder.

“Huh?”

“It’s time for lunch.”

“Oh.” Brad rubs his face and rolls onto his back. “If I eat all my vegetables do I get snuggles after?”

Patrice laughs. “I’ll always snuggle you no matter what.” He pulls Brad out of the bunk and then into his arms for a kiss. “What were you dreaming about?”

“Apples.”

“Bradley…”

“What? I’m serious. An MPC wouldn’t start so I threw apples at it until it did. Then Charlie showed up and told me it’s because I was using the wrong key, that’s why it wouldn’t start.”

“MPCs don’t even have keys…”

“It was a dream, Pat.”

He walks back to the cafeteria with Brad in tow. This tiny amount of walking winds him a little, so he sits for a second before getting back up to retrieve his food. It earns him a look of disapproval from his fiancé.

“I could’ve got that for you.”

“It’s fine, if I keep laying around I won’t get back to normal,” Patrice points out. He pops open a can of Riga smoked sprats. “Eat, Bradley. You have therapy after lunch and you’re crankier if you don’t eat first.”

Brad rolls his eyes, but obeys and breaks into a bag of _taranechka._ “ _You_ eat, you’re still injured and shit.”

“How about you both just eat like you were already about to?”

“Butt out, Vadik.” Brad chews on the first bite of fish jerky with some difficulty. “Do I still get snuggles after therapy?”

“Of course,” Patrice chuckles. “You never have to ask for snuggles, Brad.”

Charlie makes gagging noises at them, but it’s in good humor. “You guys are gross.”

“Cheeks, you’re literally just as bad as we are when you’re with Brusky,” Brad points out.

“No, because we’re at least a _little_ less clingy than you. Why are you so clingy, Marchy?”

“Alright, both of you, stop,” Patrice interrupts, because he doesn’t see this conversation going well so it needs to end. “Eat, Brad, I’m serious.”

“Fine! God! You’re worse than my mother!”

“When we get back home I’m going to gang up on you with her again just like the first time.”

Brad groans, but at least he’s gnawing on the jerky again. Patrice pulls over one of his hands and kisses the back of it, then also goes back to eating. He doesn’t really like sprats that much, but if he eats nothing but IRPs he’ll start to get sick of those so he may as well eat these slimy little fish packed in oil. And now even this makes him homesick, because in Boston or in Quebec City he could be eating poutine or apples or anything else, something that’s not sprats and canned meat and crackers wrapped in plastic. His eyes fall on the spiral notebook next to him on the table, so between bites Patrice flips it open to the first page, writes the date, and puts _homesick & in need of real food _ on the first line.

“What’s that for?” Brad wonders, watching him as he goes back to his food.

“I might be depressed, Dima’s having me write everything down.”

“Dude you _are_ depressed, every time I see you since you got back you’re sitting and staring at the wall,” Charlie insists.

“No, we can’t be sure, it hasn’t been long enough to tell yet,” Patrice argues. “And that’s not all I do. I also cuddle up with Brad on my bunk.”

“Hey how long until your lungs are better?”

“We’ve been over this, Bradley.”

“Yeah but like, how long until we can start having sex again?”

“Probably awhile, I still get dizzy just from standing up in the shower for too long so having sex would probably make me pass out almost immediately. It wouldn’t be fun for you.”

“Here’s an idea, how about you two save this conversation for when you’re by yourselves and not surrounded by colleagues who’re trying to eat?” Vadik suggests.

“Are we too gross for you, Vadik?” Brad teases. “Don’t be such a straight guy.”

Charlie starts laughing and chokes, banging his fist on his chest repeatedly and coughing. Patrice reaches over and slaps him hard on the back. Vadik just makes a face and goes back to his canned vegetables with beef.

“You write all about us for your study anyway,” Patrice points out.

“Yes.”

“Then why does it matter if you’re eating or not?”

“It’s not you specifically, Bergy. I don’t like to talk or think about sex while I eat. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t like the idea of sex very much at all right now. My wife is very far away from me and it’s frustrating. Besides, I love my children and would like to have more of them. So, I don’t need to do any more thinking about this than I already do. It distracts me from working.”

Brad snickers. “Oh, okay. We’re making you get horny… you know what, I can totally live with that. Pat?”

Patrice tries very hard not to laugh, mostly because it would be at the expense of their suffering colleague. “Yeah, I’m fine with it.”

Vadik scowls. “You’re bad friends, both of you.”

“Cheer up, Vadik, she’ll be really happy to see you when you get back, right?” Charlie points out. Then he smiles. “When we go home my mom’s going to be so happy I finally have a boyfriend, she really wants me to get married.”

“Careful of that, Chuckie… does she know you’re gay?” Brad asks.

“First of all I’m not gay, I just like people. I get interested in a person. But yeah, she knows, she just really wants me to get married because wedding shit. She loves that stuff and she’s been planning my wedding since practically before I was born. Ooh, she’ll be glad that Backy fixed my heart finally, too.”

“Okay, so now I have a question, are you going to live in Edmonton or New York?” Patrice wonders.

“Neither, I went to college in Boston, I want to live there. All my friends are there.”

“Oh, cool, you can come visit us,” Brad offers.

“But does your boyfriend want to live in Boston?”

“I talked to him about it, he’ll have to get a work visa for the buffer year but since he’s with NASA that shouldn’t be too hard. I think his biggest problem would be not just always freezing his ass off while we’re home,” Charlie jokes.

“Then what’ll you do when you go there to visit his family?”

“I’ll bring my pressure suit!”

Patrice laughs. “You know they take those back during the buffer year, right? You won’t have a pressure suit. Just visit Jake’s parents during the summer, you’ll be fine.”

“Canada has summer?” Charlie asks, completely serious.

“Yeah, Chuckie, we have summer. Just because you don’t have winter doesn’t mean we don’t have summer,” Brad answers with an eye-roll.

“We have winter in New York!”

“Not real winter… come talk to us when you realize that being up to your balls in snow is a light dusting.”

“Maybe for you, Marchy. You’re really short, after all.”

Vadik clicks his tongue at them. “No, no, you both don’t understand actual snow and cold… come for a visit in Cherepovets in January, then you might actually know what you’re talking about.”

“I thought you live in Moscow,” Patrice frowns.

“I do, but Cherepovets is where I’m from first. We go to my parents’ _dacha_ there during the summer, they have a really nice garden and a little fire pit to make _shashlik._ ”

“Okay, now you’re just making shit up, Canada doesn’t have summer so Russia _definitely_ don’t have summer.”

“Cheeks you were literally _in Russia_ at the end of last spring when we launched.”

“Yeah, for like two days, and it was cold as hell!”

“I think I’ll stand in solidarity with you two and say he doesn’t understand cold,” Vadik chuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny break from the angst with some chirping :) also this is weird, but when I was researching intubation and ventilators for earlier chapters one of the side-effects listed is depression. I'm not sure how that one gets from point A to point B but... sure, let's go for it.
> 
> Russian: *shashlik* is shish kebabs


	23. Second Week of March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little early. Maybe I should just change it so that it gets posted Friday nights instead of Saturday... but the chapters would still get posted early because I'm an impatient little bitch like that.

“I’ve seen you writing in it sometimes, so I know you’ve been doing the exercise, but have you been doing it consistently?” Dima asks as Patrice hands over the notebook.

“I’ve used up about a third of the pages in there,” Patrice answers as Dima begins studying it.

“Bergy, you’re a much better patient than your husband-to-be, he never does anything I tell him to do,” Dima mutters appreciatively as he scans each page with his eyes. “I see ‘homesick’ in here a lot, but you don’t elaborate…” He scribbles briefly on his clipboard. “Tell me about the panic attack you listed?”

“Which one?”

This earns him an exasperated sigh. “But you didn’t come speak with me about it afterwards.”

“You were busy.”

“Alright, let’s see what else then and we’ll come back to that.” He writes again. “‘Tired even though I just took a nap this morning,’ ‘bored and a little sad,’ ‘sick of seeing people look at me like I’m dying…’ Patrice, you’re depressed.”

“I figured.”

Dima nods slowly and closes the notebook back up. “This is very serious, but it’s treatable. It’s also entirely possible that it’s a symptom of your inertia and once you’re cleared for field assignments again these feelings will diminish on their own… now, tell me about how the phrase ‘worrying about Brad again’ is written every third or fourth line.”

Patrice rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you know him well enough - and me - to not need that one explained to you, Dima. He’s starting to refuse assignments. I’ve never seen him do that before and it’s scary.”

“Yes, I heard about that. He won’t have a time limit, but the distance restriction for him now is the same as yours effective yesterday. This, actually, may be good for making a case to get him evacuated. I’m compiling documents on his behavior for that purpose.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“You realize it would only be him getting sent back. You’ll remain here until your term expires.”

“Am I not injured badly enough to get evacuated?”

“If you were, don’t you think they would’ve done that right away?”

Patrice nods. “I still want him to be evacuated,” he admits in a quiet voice. “I don’t think I can ever feel like he’s safe up here again.”

“Yes. Well, we’re also not here to talk about him right now, we’re supposed to be talking about you. Clinical depression is extremely serious, as serious as what Marchy’s also going through. I’m going to compile a set of treatments to start out with and we can go through those tomorrow after I’ve had some time, but the first one is for you to keep this-” Dima hands the notebook back. “-and continue writing in it like you’ve been doing. Going forward, see if you can’t elaborate on this ‘homesickness’ you keep writing… actually, let’s talk about that right now, too. What does it usually mean?”

“I just… I miss a lot of small, stupid things about being home. I even miss annoying shit like waiting in line forever in a grocery store because there’s only one register open. But I also miss big things, too. I want to go outside without a pressure suit, I want to go swimming and ice skating. I want to get married.”

“Of course you’re enthusiastic for that anyway, but has your desire to get married to Marchy increased significantly since your injury?”

“I guess. Yeah, it has. I don’t care about planning and fancy ceremonies, that’s the first thing I want to do when we go back.”

“Yes, this is a manifestation of your anxiety. You discovered the complications that arose during your surgery and so you spend too much time thinking about how and when you’ll die, even if you don’t realize it. It’s not uncommon. Understand that this is still considered mental trauma… panic attacks aside, it’s showing different symptoms than how Marchy’s trauma shows symptoms. He has a very specific anxiety problem that demands him to be removed from this situation, regardless of whether I have the power to do that or not. For you, it may arguably be more difficult. There’s no one treatment for depression. With PTSD there is a small group of medications and some specific therapy approaches that work best. For depression, especially with anxiety comorbid, it may take a very long time - years, possibly - to find a combination of things that work for you. There are too many medications and types of therapy that might be used, so it’s a difficult process.”

“So basically I’m just sick and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it until I get home.”

“I didn’t say that. We can most probably keep it in check at the very least until your term expires. Like I said, I’m going to do some legwork and come up with treatment exercises for you. This is far from a hopeless situation. But I do have a list of requirements for you… first, if ever it happens that there’s a day or more where you’re incapable of getting out of bed, you send Marchy to come get me. If it ever happens that you start having thoughts to hurt other people or yourself, then you must come see me right away, no matter what I’m doing or what time of day it is. That’s a medical emergency just like your lungs. Now… if either of those scenarios do arise, don’t be embarrassed by it. This isn’t your fault in any way shape or form.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Dima repeats. “So, would you like to tell me about these panic attacks?”

“There were a few small ones. They went away on their own and I didn’t tell Brad.”

“Do you know what they were caused by?”

“What?”

“No, I’m asking.”

“Oh. Mostly worrying about him too hard. Once it was because I was thinking about the surgery thing for the hundred thousandth time… you know, the what-ifs and everything. Like what if I have to have another surgery but don’t make it that time. That sort of thing.”

“That’s common. Learning something like that is very unpleasant… it’s why you want to get married the second you get back to earth. I would also argue that it’s because you don’t always trust that Brad knows how much he means to you, and you think this will prove it to him. But believe me when I tell you that he does already know. You’re all he talks about with me and at least one a week he asks me what he did to deserve your love.”

“What do you say when he asks that?”

“I tell him it’s because you find him lovable.”

Patrice nods. “That’s fair.”

“Alright. So you’re clear on what you need to do for right now?”

“Keep writing in the notebook, but be more specific. Come see you if I start thinking about trying to kill myself. Come back tomorrow for more instructions.”

“Yes. You’re free, now. Good luck with your evaluation.”

This means Patrice leaves Dima’s office and walks all of four feet to where Krej is waiting for him. His lungs are listened to, Krej asks him questions about whether he still gets tired doing certain things. The determination is made for his distance restriction to be 700 meters and his time restriction to be 45 minutes. Patrice can live with that.


	24. Third Week of March

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: this chapter is kind of a downer.

For a few seconds, Patrice isn’t sure why he woke up, because when he drifted off Brad was out cold and drooling on his shoulder. His shoulder is still wet… Brad’s squeezing him. Patrice rubs his face with his hand and sit up, then pulls Brad off the bunk and all the way down the hall to the airlock. This is the farthest point from where everyone else is sleeping, which means that Brad can cry reasonably loudly without waking up everyone else.

Sitting there, Patrice strokes Brad’s back while Brad’s face is buried in his shirt. He doesn’t ask, because Brad won’t want to tell him most of the time. He doesn’t say anything at all, in fact, because usually the words that can comfort Brad don’t exist. The illness is getting worse. Brad needs to go home. Patrice feels worthless, because nothing he does makes things better. All that’s left is for him to sit with tears soaking into his chest, holding something that shakes and clings to him like he’ll vanish if he’s not anchored. Patrice wonders where Brad disappears to in these moments, where the real Brad is when all that shows is this fear and this sickness. He wishes he could go in this person’s head and find his Brad again. Brad needs to be found but nobody can do that up here.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” Brad whispers eventually.

“It’s okay.”

“No it’s not, you have to stop saying that.”

“I wish you would talk to me again, Brad. I wish I knew what’s wrong.”

“Nightmares.”

“Well, yeah, I knew _that._ What do you dream about?”

Silence.

“Do you dream about being trapped in your suit?”

Silence.

“Do you dream about the quarantine box?”

Silence.

“…do you dream about me dying?”

More silence… then, a slow nod. Brad tears up again and starts frantically wiping his eyes. “You said… on the table…”

“Yeah. Yeah, that bothers me a lot, too.”

“You die in my dreams a lot. Like. I run around trying to find you but I can’t. Nobody ever comes over and tells me you’re dead, but I know somehow. I keep trying to find you after but I still can’t.”

“But I’m here, Brad…” Patrice drags his fiancé fully into his lap and squeezes with his arms so that Brad’s surrounded by him on all sides. “It doesn’t matter what happens in your dreams, because I’m here.”

“I know,” Brad hiccups. He rubs his face on Patrice’s shirt, which is kind of useless because it’s wet. “You’re still losing weight, Pat.”

“What?”

“When you got back from Second Institute you were skinnier than when you left, and you’re still losing weight.”

“Oh. That has nothing to do with my lungs, though, it’s the mood problems. When we go home someone will put me on antidepressants and then I’ll balloon up and get nice and fat just for you.”

Brad laughs through his tears. “I don’t want you to be fat, Pat… I want us to get back to normal again, that’s all.”

Patrice sighs quietly. “I don’t think that can happen as long as we’re up here. We need to go home for that.” He kisses the top of Brad’s head. “When we go home I’ll still keep doing therapy with you, if you want.”

“When we go home I won’t need therapy anymore.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“No, really. At home I don’t have to wear a suit, so it’ll be fine after that.”

Patrice sighs. “Brad… I know I brought this up a couple times and it made you get mad at me, but when we go home there’s no buffer year. We shouldn’t come back after this. It’s dangerous for you, and with my lungs I won’t probably be able to pass the physical exam again anyway. So we’re going to go home, and we’re going to find new jobs.”

“But Pat…”

“I know.” Patrice strokes down Brad’s hair. “But your problem keeps getting worse and worse… you’re so anxious, Brad, it scares me that you might get hurt because of it. You’ve been having panic attacks almost every time you went to wear your suit these past couple of weeks. You have nightmares four times a week, now, and this is the second time I’ve woken up and found you crying from them. You need better help than Dima can give you… I want you to be okay again, I want us to be normal again like you said. We can’t do that here.”

Brad curls tighter against Patrice’s torso. “It’s not supposed to happen like this.”

“I know.”

“What other jobs are there for us after something like this?”

“I know, Brad.”

“I don’t think I _can_ do anything else.”

“You can. So can I. It’ll take adjustment, that’s all. It won’t be the end of the world, I promise. But here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to go home in however many months. Once we can stand without fainting, we’re going to get married right away. I can go back to working for that hazmat contractor like I did during the buffer year. We’ll find something for you to do, too. And we’ll go to the lake again every summer and have kids and do all those boring normal people things. But since we both got all screwed up by being up here, NASA and Roscosmos will keep being interested in us for awhile, so we won’t actually stop being astronauts. We just won’t be here on Mars anymore. Imagine that with me… think about how cool it’s going to be, that we can tell our kids someday that we spent four years on another planet. What other parents get to say that to their children?”

“Vadik. Tuuks. Z.”

“But not very many, right?”

“Yeah.”

Patrice smooths his palm down the side of Brad’s face, now. “I love you, Bradley.”

“I love you too, Pat.”

“Do you feel a little better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, because my ass is numb and I need to get up.”

They go back to bed and fall asleep without very many issues after that. The next time Patrice wakes up it’s because Brad’s flopped across his chest and he can’t breathe, but breakfast is in less than an hour anyway so he just rouses for the day right then. Brad elects to sleep for a few more minutes.

“You look tired,” Tuukka observes as Patrice comes into the cafeteria and sits at the table.

“That’s because I am.” At least it’s not the end of the month, so all the good flavors of instant buckwheat cereal haven’t been completely devoured yet. Two packets of raspberry are tossed his way. “How’s your project going?”

“Which one?”

“Any of them. Just talk about something that doesn’t remind me of mental health.”

“Okay…” Tuukka scrunches his face as he thinks for a second while preparing his own breakfast, which is just whatever he didn’t eat from his IRP last night at dinner. “The bacteria in the oxygen garden have all been deemed harmless by Zhenya, and everything I’ve seen confirms that.”

“All that bacteria came in with the plants though, right?”

“Yeah, none of it’s indigenous. Every germ up here is something we brought along.”

“Cool.” Patrice gets up from the table to heat water for his breakfast. “Hey, what are the guys on the other end of the world up to? I don’t hear about them very much.”

“I don’t have a fucking clue, man. I know a lot of the guys there are from the States.” He pauses. “Not to ruin your morning, Bergy, but Pasta hit his radiation exposure limit for the next two months already so you’re going on a job today from what I heard.”

“Great.”

“I think it’s something about the ATVs, so it’s in your distance since they’re all right outside.”

“Even better. Tell me it’s not Brad’s turn and I can take Brusky.”

Tuukka’s expression is all the answer he gets, and all the answer he needs.

“God dammit.”

“I heard my name, should I be worried?” Jake asks as he joins them in the cafeteria and selects the same breakfast option as Patrice.

“I’m taking Brad on a field assignment today, apparently.”

Jake snorts. “Good luck with that, Bergy. He always freaks out when it’s his turn and even when he doesn’t he’ll just refuse to go anyway.”

“It’s true, that’s why Pasta’s dosimeter rang in so high,” Tuukka adds.

“Why, does Pasta just go for him?”

“Yeah, usually. The poor bastard took over five millisieverts.”

“Jesus, was there a solar flare?”

“Nope. Just too much time outside.”

Patrice sinks into his chair. “I don’t believe this…”

“You don’t? You’re the one who spends the most time with Marchy.”

“Not literally, Tuuks.”

“If Marchy can’t work, why don’t they fire him?” Jake wonders.

“Roscosmos is experimenting on him,” Tuukka answers.

Patrice leaves his colleague to explain it because he’s sick of talking and thinking about that. It’s all he talks or thinks about most of the time anyway, how can he get his fiancé sent home. It exhausts him.

Slowly everyone else trickles in, the last ones being Dima and Krej. Dima appears exactly long enough to grab some food and then leaves again, while Krej opens three IRP sets so that he can make the strongest, blackest cup of instant coffee possible. Brad doesn’t show up at all.

“Bergy, you have an assignment after breakfast,” Bruce starts, but is cut off by Tuukka.

“Don’t worry, he already knows.”

“The specifics or just that he has a job? So Bergy, we have a defective battery in an ATV. Nothing too big, just a quick little job. You and your louder half can handle that, right?”

“Can I take Chuckie or Brusky instead please, Bruce?”

“Chuckie does indoor stuff and Brusky’s exposure level’s getting up there with Pasta’s… you’ll be right outside the airlock, and if Marchy’s with you he can probably do it.”

“Where _is_ Marchy, anyway?” Pasta wonders.

“Probably still sleeping,” Patrice answers. “Krej, can you start loading him up on lorazepam at night so that he can actually get a normal rest?”

“That’s not a good idea. Technically I could, but I’m not going to.”

Patrice sighs, takes the last two bites of his food, and gets up to make a second bowl. But it’s not for him. Once it’s ready, he leaves the cafeteria and brings it to his bunk, where Brad’s sprawled facedown and snoring like a chainsaw. It takes vigorous and determined shaking to rouse him.

“Huh? Pat?” Brad rolls over, sits up, and yawns so widely Patrice is worried his jaw won’t close again after.

“Breakfast.” He hands over the bowl and spoon. “It’s blueberry.”

“Cool.”

“Brad…” Patrice sits on the side of the bunk. “We have a field assignment today. It’s just to fix an ATV and then we go back in. Can you do this with me?” Brad immediately stops eating and puts down the bowl. “Brad…”

“I - Pat, I…”

Brad’s choking on his words and doesn’t even finish whatever his thought is. That’s not a good sign.

“Is this about your nightmares?”

“Kind of. I was having one just now.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.” Brad stabs the spoon into the buckwheat. “I’ll do this job with you, Pat.”

“Okay,” he agrees, very quietly. “Finish your breakfast and we’ll get ready to go.”

“I’m full.”

“You were getting on my case earlier about losing too much weight. Eat.”

The motions of taking bites off a spoon and swallowing have never looked so grudging and spiteful as right now, and Brad grimaces with each one. Finally he gives the bowl back. “There, happy?”

“No, I’m still depressed and tired… alright, I’ll bring this back while you get dressed and then we’ll go get the specs from Bruce.”

“Okay.”

Finally ending up at the airlock, Patrice is distressed but unsurprised to see all of Brad’s tells - tremors, hyperventilation, constantly re-cracking his knuckles even though they don’t make noise after the first time. And then the big one - refusing to continue donning his suit past a certain point.

“Brad.”

Brad stares at Patrice with huge eyes and says nothing, just shakes his head.

“Brad, come on, it’s okay.”

Brad shakes his head harder and starts backing up, but he doesn’t get far before he’s pressing into the wall.

“Brad, talk to me.”

A sharp gasp in, then a trembling exhale. “Something’s going to happen, you’ll get sick again.”

“No, no I won’t. This is less than a thirty minute job.” Patrice tries to give over Brad’ helmet, but it’s frantically shoved back into his own hands. “Brad, it’s okay, trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Something’ll happen to _you._ ”

“No it won’t, I promise.”

Patrice holds out the helmet a second time and it’s still rejected.

“Pat I’m too tired, I’ll fuck up and something’s going to go wrong-”

“You don’t have to do anything, this is just to meet the protocol. I can’t go out by myself.” Patrice sets the helmet aside and puts both hands on Brad’s shoulders. “It’s going to be okay.”

Brad doesn’t pick up his helmet, but he finally stops resisting at least. He lets Patrice put it on him and affix the air hose at the back, then Patrice takes his hand and they go into the airlock.


	25. Last Week of April - II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't that angsty, surprisingly.

“You’re such an idiot, Bergy,” Vadik grumbles as he practically drags Patrice up the hallway to the infirmary.

Patrice can’t say anything because he’s too busy doing the fish-out-of-water thing, but he agrees with his colleague on that statement 100%. Apparently distance and time restrictions, loose as they are now, also mean he still isn’t back in a state where he can play floor hockey either. So he nods, not sure if Vadik notices, and uses the rest of his energy to focus on making his legs move so that he doesn’t collapse onto his face again while also ineffectively gasping for air.

It makes him glad they were just chasing each other around with sticks and a punctured tennis ball - Brad’s having a post-lunch nap and most of the others are doing various tasks, but Vadik and Patrice were free and so decided to screw around by the airlock with their very limited hockey stuff. With Brad unaware, he can’t freak out about this. The other thing is that for the last few weeks Brad’s PTSD symptoms seem to have finally plateaued instead of continuing to get worse, so Patrice has been extra careful lately to try and keep it that way. This is just about the last thing Brad needs to see and it’s good he’s not around for it.

Vadik deposits Patrice on a cot and Krej comes over to load him up on bronchodilators. As Patrice sits and breathes through a nebulizer, he hopes like hell that he didn’t just set his healing progress back today by being an idiot. After a few minutes Patrice starts feeling less like he’s going to suffocate and he’s able to relax a little, which also helps his breathing improve. He wants this injury to resolve itself sooner rather than later, because it’s now been a year since they arrived and he doesn’t want to spend all of the next year still struggling to breathe. Besides, having respiratory problems at random probably won’t help his anxiety.

“Okay. Repeat after me, Bergy: no more hockey,” Krej insists as he’s putting away all the stuff after.

“No more hockey,” he grumbles. That’s one less thing he can do during the day to keep him distracted from his worsening mental condition, now. “Roscosmos needs to send up some new movies and books in the next supply drop.”

“I can ask for you, but anything they send will be in Russian.”

“I don’t even care anymore, I need something to occupy myself with when I’m not on assignments and I can’t just sleep all day like Brad does.”

“Yeah, actually can you get him to stop doing that? It’s really bad for his circadian rhythm.”

“I can try, but I make no promises.” A thought randomly occurs to him and he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before now. “Hey Krej, how come you and Backy came over to help do my surgery? Max wasn’t the only surgeon there, I know there was at least one other one.”

“And yet no x-ray techs,” Krej rolls his eyes. “The short answer is we were worried. Everyone was. Marchy, Chuckie and Vadik all asked us both to go, so then we asked Max and fortunately he agreed. If things went the other way for you, at least we would’ve known that we did everything we could to help. And it’s a good thing, too. We had enough hands for when you went into arrest.”

Patrice nods. “Well, thank you for that.”

“You know you’ve already said that to me about a hundred times.”

“But I mean it.”

“I know you do. You’re welcome.”

He frowns. “Really everyone?”

“Yup.”

“Even Tuuks and Bruce?”

“Everyone, Bergy.”

Patrice nods again, thoughtful. These are his extended family, they love him and worry about him the same way they love and worry about Brad or Charlie. He’s going to invite them all to his wedding when he gets home, even if he has to buy all their plane tickets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst picks back up in next Saturday's update, and you may hate me for it this time. However I promise in advance it won't go the way you think it will.


	26. First Week of July - II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't originally mean for there to be such a time gap between the last chapter and this one. Oops.
> 
> Also yes I realize I'm posting this five hours early, but if I don't do it now I just KNOW I'm going to forget.

“Hell of a birthday present, huh?” Brad grumbles as he watches Patrice get suited up.

Patrice rolls his eyes. “My birthday isn’t for twenty two more days, Bradley.” He pulls up his thermal hood and compulsively checks the gasket on the end of his air hose. “They’re going to take x-rays and listen to my lungs. That’s all.”

“Can’t they come here and do that?”

“There’s no x-ray machines here. Stop asking that. I have to go to them. This is how it’ll be when we go home, too, I’m probably going to be seeing a lot of doctors for the first few months. They can’t come to me in that case either, so you should really just get used to it now.”

“But Pat-”

“Shush.” Patrice kisses him, briefly. “It’s fine. I’m fine. After this my restrictions get lifted again.”

“Yeah, I don’t actually feel good about that,” Brad admits. “Those restrictions are annoying but they keep you safer and shit…”

“Brad, it’s fine. Just go do your therapy, have lunch, and after that I’ll be back again. My lungs don’t hurt, I haven’t gotten randomly tired in over six weeks. They won’t find anything.”

Patrice clamps down his helmet and presses the air hose into the snap joint at the back, then goes through the airlock to meet the MPC from _Vtoroy Institut._ Hopefully this won’t take too long - there’s a floor hockey game after dinner, Team Russia versus Team Sharps Precautions. He wants to get back to normal, despite what he knows is coming next month. He also just wants to see Dima play hockey, because his colleague is seriously flagging under the stress of Brad’s issues. Sometimes it feels like nobody on the team is okay anymore.

The MPC collects him and he spends the ride worrying about Brad… worrying about Brad takes up most of his life these days. The paperwork finally went through for Dima and Vadik’s experiment to be terminated, which means at the beginning of August Brad’s going to be evacuated. This isn’t going to go over well no matter how much it needs to happen and Patrice isn’t looking forward to it. But Brad hasn’t gone on a field assignment in over two weeks. He sits inside the complex re-reading the books he brought with him, half-assing his therapy and taking constant naps because he can’t sleep for more than an hour or two anymore. He’s getting worse again and things can’t stay this way. The shittiest part, though, is that Patrice knows in advance that Brad’s being sent home. His fiancé could (probably _will_ ) get really upset about that, especially since he’s had a lot to do with it happening at all. Patrice hates himself for helping orchestrate this necessary evil.

Andreshka is waiting for him by the airlock. “Patrik, good morning. How do you feel?”

“Back to normal.” It’s almost true. Before his lung injury he was considerably less miserable.

“Wonderful, hopefully the imaging tests corroborate.”

It’s kind of annoying that he has to get all the way undressed just for some x-rays, but it’s extremely likely this will be the last time he has to go through it while he’s up here, so he bears it without complaining. Sitting and waiting for the x-rays to develop just gives him more time to mentally beat himself up about Brad… he knows it’s the right choice, he knows it’s the safest choice. It still feels like he’s done something wrong. And how long can he pretend everything’s normal? Hopefully Dima tells Brad about this before Patrice cracks under the pressure and makes the situation explode horribly.

“Patrik, are you sure you’re feeling well?”

Andreshka pops him back to reality, holding several large films.

“Physically, yes.”

“Alright… your x-rays are all clear and your lungs sound good when I listen to them. I’ll recommend to David that your restrictions be completely lifted.”

“Thank you.”

Patrice wishes he could feel good about this. He’s back to normal. A hockey game tonight. Brad will be safe, soon. Brad will be safe soon… no he won’t. He’ll get home and forget how to exist on a even basic level just like the beginning of the buffer year after their first mission. He won’t see Patrice again for over nine months when Patrice is his emotional crutch. Nobody back home will understand anything he’s gone through or why he is the way he is now, why he’s so sick, why he probably won’t be able to work for awhile. This is the right choice. This is the safest choice. But it feels so dangerous and so wrong in so many ways. Patrice fucking hates himself.

This goes through his head on a loop the entire drive back to _Dacha._ The tiniest of victories in this situation: Patrice manages to wait until he’s in the airlock being deconed until he starts crying, which is really important because once it’s happening he just can’t stop. Which means that when he’s clean and inside, Krej is watching him with an expression obviously expecting something horrible in the medical report. When Patrice takes it out of its plastic sleeve and hands it over, that look of alarm and concern turns confused in a hurry.

“Bergy… you’re fine.”

“Yeah.” Patrice nods and wipes his face on his sleeve the way little kids do. “I know.”

“Okay… so why…?”

“I got Dima to try and send Brad home. He’s going to go back and everything’ll go wrong and probably even his mom won’t know who he is anymore-”

“Bergy, for the love of god, _breathe._ ” Krej’s hands land heavily on his shoulders. “Take some breaths. There’s no reason to panic over this. You did the right thing and Dima probably would’ve tried to get him sent home anyway even if you didn’t want that to happen. NASA and Roscosmos will have a team of behavioral health professionals waiting to meet him the second he lands. It may happen that Marchy spends a little time in a hospital before he goes home, which would probably be the best thing for him. Because his issues happened as a direct result of his profession, there will be no medical bills and he’ll have all the help he can ask for. Everyone is going to take the best care of him that they can when he lands.”

“But I’m fine. And I can’t go back with him.”

“Patrice Bergeron-Cleary.” Krej stares him down. “Your mental health is so bad that I don’t see you making it more than two months after Marchy goes. That’s not a statement on you, it could’ve been any of us.” The hands come away from his shoulders and he uses this opportunity to scrub his face dry again. “It’s very unlikely you’ll be away from him for very long. By the time you get home he’ll probably be out of the hospital if he does get sent there.”

“I should go home with him. His family won’t know what to do with him when they see him again.”

“Unfortunately we can’t send you home until you actually crack. Roscosmos will punish us for it otherwise. Alright, look, you’re clearly going to keep freaking out, so it seems like a good idea for you to have some lorazepam and possibly a nap shortly following. Come on.”

Patrice is led to the infirmary by his arm like a misbehaving child and thankfully given the medication in pill form - until now he’s mostly seen it injected and he’d much rather swallow it than be shot up. This way it takes just long enough to kick in for him to go back to his bunk and lay down. It’s not quite a tired feeling so much as a void feeling… he stops caring so much about his problems and is perfectly happy to just lie on his back for awhile, not looking at or thinking about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please believe me when I say this isn't going to go in the direction you think it will... in order to not lose readers, I will give up a minor spoiler by saying that they won't be separated for very long.
> 
> Also... not to scare people, but this will probably be my last major undertaking for this pairing, at least for awhile. I've been losing steam gradually for no apparent reason and I have other things I should've finished a long time ago but didn't, I'm working on a for reals actual novel that I started YEARS ago but still haven't gotten done yet. I may still write sporadically for Marcheron and this fic WILL GET FINISHED. But also a lot of other writers who I like have been leaving too, which is discouraging. There are already too many dead fandoms/pairings that I'm part of and often whenever an idea gets brought up on Tumblr I'm the one who ends up writing it because nobody else is going to. It's exhausting. However I reiterate: THIS FIC WILL GET FINISHED. It's very nearly complete by now anyway (10+ chapters already here on AO3 as unposted drafts) and only a couple left to write at all. It will get finished.
> 
> ADDENDUM. Just finished writing the last chapter the same day as I posted this one! The fic is in fact finished and there are nine weeks to go before it's fully posted. Enjoy, folks.


	27. First Week of August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little early, but I'm sure you've come to expect that from me by now. Happy Black Friday.

“It’s only a few months,” Patrice tells Brad for the hundredth time this morning.

Brad grunts. He’s been loaded up on lorazepam since yesterday when they finally told him, so he’s barely responsive at all right now while Patrice packs his stuff for him. Meanwhile Patrice doesn’t really know what, exactly, is stopping him from completely losing his shit. Brad leaves today. He’ll stay here. He’ll stay here… he hates this, he hates that it’s come to this. And he hates that he’s at least partly responsible, if not mostly responsible. Maybe if they had shared the oxygen tank the first time, instead of giving the whole thing to Brad and then almost asphyxiating for his efforts. He should’ve done that one thing different, then none of this would be necessary. There are a lot of other things Patrice should’ve done different, too, so many he probably can’t even think of them all. He could’ve done better but he didn’t, and now Brad’s paying for it.

“I need a nap,” Brad mumbles, looking at Patrice but with a really unfocused expression.

“Brad, listen to me. You might get put in a hospital when you go back. If that happens, you should stay there as long as possible so they can help you fix everything.”

“Yeah.”

“They might put you on medications, too, and you’ll have to take them.”

“Okay.”

Brad’s only reasonable because he’s chemically altered right now. It’s been too long since Patrice had a choice for Brad to be something other than two things: an irrational terrified disaster, or medicated into a state of blank compliance. He tries to think where Brad is, where exactly his fiancé has vanished to, leaving this shell of a person. He’s thought about this so many times now and still has no answer. Patrice doesn’t know where Brad is or what the point was where he finished losing Brad to this invisible hell.

Krej appears. “They’re here for him.”

Patrice frantically stuffs one of his own dirty undershirts into Brad’s rucksack because he knows it’ll smell like him and maybe help a little. He doesn’t know how to deal with this except to quietly think how unfair it is.

Brad is taken down to the airlock and Patrice struggles him into his pressure suit, kissing every inch of his face before the helmet goes on. That phrase from  _The Stand_ jumps into his mind: this is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper. A very unnatural whimper. If Brad wasn’t drugged, there would definitely be a bang instead because he would be kicking and screaming in the most literal sense of the word. The airlock closes. Krej comes back in by himself shortly following. Patrice doesn’t know how to deal with this.

“Bergy.”

Patrice shakes his head. He can’t talk.

“I think you should go see Dima.”

It seems reasonable. Maybe he should go see Dima. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. Maybe he’ll get injured on a field assignment again, badly enough to be sent home. That would almost be ideal. Brad’s going to be by himself otherwise. Maybe Roscosmos will learn that he’s bisexual and kick him off the mission. Something. Something needs to happen. Patrice needs to go home. He needs to go home and get Brad fixed.

In Dima’s office, Vadik is sitting and writing on the very last page of his current notebook. A few seconds after Patrice comes in, he flips it shut, sticks it in a box on top of a dozen other identical notebooks, and picks up a brand new one. It’s labeled as number 83 and he opens it to begin scrawling again.

“I go through one a week, usually.” Vadik glances at Patrice from his desk. “Would you like some vodka?”

“Yes,” Patrice decides, not actually thinking very hard about his answer. With Russians, the answer to everything is vodka, even when there was never a question that got asked in the first place. “Where’s Dima?”

“He’ll be here with your vodka in about thirty seconds.”

Ah. Dima’s getting drunk, too. Patrice can’t really blame him, though, because Dima has a lot of problems.

“I did this,” Patrice whispers. “Brad’s going home because of me.”

“You didn’t.” Vadik shakes his head. “Bergy… you of all people know how sick he is. It was a very big mistake on my part to keep him here at all after what happened last July. He should’ve been sent home then, before it got to this point. I should’ve known better, Dima should’ve known better. Marchy was never going to be okay up here after that. We should’ve expected this outcome.”

“No but Brad was right, I should’ve shared the oxygen tank with him.”

“It’s a well-documented fact that he’s claustrophobic to begin with. Someone who’s afraid to wear a space suit and then has a potentially fatal accident with one isn’t going to be fine after. You have nothing to do with that basic truth. Bergy listen. He was always going to be in trouble. He was always going to get sick. Dima and I kept him here when we should’ve sent him home in the first place, and because we made that call this became an inevitable conclusion to things. You played no part in Marchy’s mental state crumbling the way it did.”

“I couldn’t find him anymore,” Patrice admits. “It’s been awhile… I mean, he. I. I don’t know when he stopped being himself. It happened sometime months ago and I’m so stupid that I didn’t even notice until it was too late.”

He’s not sure exactly how this happens, but immediately after finishing that sentence Vadik is hugging him while he sobs uncontrollably. It’s still his fault because he asked for this. He first asked them to keep Brad here and then asked for Brad to be sent back. It’s still his fault. All of this, everything, each part of it has to do with him no matter what Vadik says. Patrice did this to Brad.

Eventually he manages to get a grip on himself again, so he sits in the chair next to Dima’s desk and wipes his eyes dry on his sleeve. Dima pours shots and all three of them drink. Then Dima has another one before settling at his desk.

“Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, we’re going to add some things to your treatment plan as far as how you’re going to cope with this,” Dima informs him. “But for right now, it could be a good idea for you to try your best to think of the positive aspects of this situation. Marchy is being removed from the environment that caused him these problems, and back home there will be more than adequate levels of help and support for him. It will be difficult for him, it will be difficult for you, but in my opinion Bradley was reaching a stage where a fatal outcome was a possibility for him unless this option was taken. But he’ll be safe again soon. So, you’ll be able to focus better on improving your own mental health.”

Patrice whines his concerns to Dima while Vadik scribbles more notes, then sits for awhile and cries some more. They give him another double of vodka and he starts to turn off. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. He’ll wake up by himself every morning, which is something that hasn’t taken place for several years. Something could happen to Brad back on Earth and Patrice won’t be able to help or even hear about it until much later. He doesn’t know how to deal with this.

Patrice doesn’t think he can deal with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to *The Stand* is to the four-part miniseries from the 90s, not the book. I have read the book but it was a very long time ago and I don't remember if that line is in it. However it is part of the miniseries. Why would Patrice have seen it? Who knows. I just like it and it felt pretty apt.


	28. Second Week of August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaannnnnnnnd here we have: clinical depression hitting Patrice like a bitch.
> 
> Fun fact: I will be super, unreasonably fucking busy for the next two days! Hooray! So now this goes up 23 hours early because I have no idea if I'll have time to do it before passing out due to sheer exhaustion before the midnight between today and Saturday.

Patrice writes the date.

_I’m waiting for the medical report_   
_it won’t show up until next week and that makes me anxious_   
_I keep losing track of what I’m supposed to be doing  
it’s been eight days and I think Krej was right. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. I just need to figure something out._

He stops and erases the last line. If Dima reads something like that, he’ll try to talk Patrice out of doing anything stupid. The worst part is knowing that something stupid is the only way Patrice can get sent home. But Brad’s all alone, probably locked up in a mental ward somewhere. He can’t let that continue for any longer than it has to, and that means coming up with a way to get himself evacuated.

Patrice worries about the indentations of the letters on the page and erases so hard that a hole forms, which is still suspicious.

He tears the page out and writes the rest all over again, then continues on a different train of thought.

_my routine is all screwed up. today suiting up to run over to the solar farm with Jake it felt like I was forgetting something because usually I also have to force Brad to put on his gear. I don’t know if I can get used to him not being here. I keep trying to find him for a couple seconds before I remember._

There. That should satisfy Dima without giving too much away.

The notebook is suddenly yanked from his hands and a can of beef _tushenka_ is shoved in its place, complete with a fork. A pack of crackers is dropped in his lap as well. Looking up from his bunk reveals, of all people, a cranky Finnish biologist.

“Eat,” Tuukka grunts, before parking on the bunk across from him.

“I’m not really hungry right now.”

“Eat,” Tuukka repeats. “Don’t make me come back over there. That food’s getting into your stomach one way or another.”

Patrice raises both eyebrows but doesn’t say anything else because it’s obvious he isn’t getting out of this. He takes the smallest bite that he can and chews for a solid thirty seconds before swallowing. His guts are in balls and seem to be screaming at him with rage that he dare disturb them.

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“It’s lunch time. You didn’t show up, so I came to check on you.”

“I don’t need to be checked on. I’m just not hungry and I might take a nap later if there’s no assignments.”

“There are assignments.”

“Okay.” Patrice gathers his willpower and almost chokes putting more food in his mouth. “What assignments?”

“I have to go to Second Institute to exchange data and then possibly to First Institute as well for samples. Apparently they’re culturing something and want another set of eyes.”

“And I’m your driver.”

“Yes. Your dosimeter rang in lowest.”

It could be a good thing. Driving several dozen kilometers in an MPC might help distract him from how tired he feels. Tired isn’t even the right word, though, it’s more like a combination of heaviness and weariness even though he knows he slept last night. Patrice forces down another tiny bite of _tushenka._

Once he’s done being baby-sat through lunch, Patrice has some coffee out of an IRP to help him be less tired during the drive before heading to the airlock. Vadik unexpectedly joins them and begins suiting up as well.

“Did you forget to eat, Bergy?”

“No, Tuuks brought me something. Why are you coming?”

“They have some documents for me, comparative data. Contrasting the effects of a small station versus a large one in terms of human interaction.”

The three of them get into the MPC. Technically the ATVs can carry four astronauts at once, but this way they don’t have to rely on the more limited air supply of their suits and carrying any potential cargo is a lot safer. Besides, they have better radiation shielding this way.

“I had a friend at school,” Tuukka informs them, very randomly. “He was in the courses with me at the start of the program to staff the complexes here with someone other than Russians. He got through most of the schooling okay but by the end of our last year he was starting to crack. During the first phase of the training with Roscosmos he got dropped for psychological reasons.”

“Okay, so are you telling me this to compare him to me or to Brad?” Patrice asks, trying not to be irritated.

“If Marchy didn’t get dropped and sent home he would probably have died up here, Bergy. Did we want him to go? No, we didn’t. But he’s safe now.”

“He isn’t,” Patrice argues. “He’s not safe without me.”

“Maybe not. But he’s in less danger at home.”

Almost everyone by now has given Patrice some variation of this same speech. He’s tired of hearing it.

“Tuuks, I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but-”

“You can let me finish.”

“…fine.”

“All the rest of us have wives or boyfriends at home, too. So now you can be lonely with us if you want.”

Surprisingly, that actually does help a tiny bit. “Well how do you cope?”

“Why do you think I take so many pictures? It’s to show my daughters when I get home. They always ask me how it’s like up here and now I can show them. You have to find ways around the loneliness. Why the hell else do you think I get into a pressure suit four nights a week and you all send tennis balls flying at my face?”

“It’s a large part of my study, too,” Vadik volunteers. “The interactions are very similar in structure to soldiers bonding during wartime. It’s a unique experience that most people can’t lay claim to, and these methods of bonding help mitigate the stress of being away from loved ones. Humans are pack animals. So, put in a situation where you’re simply trapped with the same people for two dozen months, this now becomes your family and your instincts switch tracks to take care of these people. It’s why none of us will stop bothering you with our worthless advice in the last few days. We’re trying to help, even if it doesn’t work very well.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s very obvious on its own. Rational explanations have failed. Appealing to emotion has also failed. Roscosmos, in its infinite wisdom, will deny my request to have you removed when the paperwork comes back to me today.”

“Wait, _what?_ ”

“I anticipated this… okay, Dima may have helped me anticipate this. I put in for it once I learned that Marchy was going, but I expect them to say no because I couldn’t provide a physical reason to back up the psychological one. A depressed worker is still expected to work and they refuse to understand that this model of management instigates greater harm in so many of those workers.”

“Well, it was nice of you to tell me this in the first place instead of waiting until now and surprising me with it out of nowhere.”

“It’s not important, Bergy. Nothing’s going to come of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the topic of Patrice's journaling: people lie to their therapists constantly, mostly because they think they have to. They will either say they're not as bad as they are to avoid hospitalization or they'll say they're worse than they are because they think if they're not super bad off then they're "faking" it somehow. Patrice lies because he wants to figure out a way to leave without anyone catching on and stopping him, even though if he REALLY stopped and thought about it he'd probably realize they'd do everything they can to help him get home if he would just tell them. Bear this in mind for the next two chapters and it will make sense.


	29. Third Week of August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is where Patrice's logic pretty much completely abandons him. Don't get depression kids.
> 
> Oh my gooooooooodddddddd why do I keep ending up with shit to do on Saturdays that needs prep on Friday nights this needs to stop so I can post the last few chapters of this fic normally instead of however many hours early!

“You’ve been trained to do this, right?” Patrice asks as they suit up.

Charlie nods. “Yeah, Pasta showed me how… actually that was back when you were out for your lungs. I did a training module on it.”

“I see.” That’s not the answer Patrice was looking for. Training modules and actually doing a task are usually completely unrelated things up here. “Why is his dosimeter always so high the last few months?”

“I think there was a solar flare, it’s just bad luck, man.”

Their helmets go on and then the potassium superoxide canisters get clamped into place over their regular air supply packs - the ride out to the solar farm is so long that driving there on an ATV without rebreather cans supplementing their air is just begging for trouble. Wearing a rebreather can mostly just means the air’s warmer than usual and a little funny tasting.

They pass through the airlock and collect their supplies from the outbuilding, then load everything up onto the APC and start driving. The solar farm isn’t really Patrice’s favorite place to go, mostly because if he’s there it means he’s sitting on his ass watching an electronics technician work since he’s “only” an engineer and there isn’t that much in the way of mechanical failures that happen over there.

“So… can I ask, or is it still too soon?”

“What?”

“About Marchy. I thought the report came in saying what happened after he got home.”

“Oh.” Patrice shrugs. “He’s not in a mental hospital. I was kind of surprised about that, actually. Roscosmos is boarding him in Moscow while he gets studied for a few weeks and after that he’ll be sent to NASA for their rounds of testing. I guess about twenty different psychologists are looking at him total, he’s just  _ so _ interesting for them. Which is fine, I guess, until you realize that he really  _ really _ should be in a fucking mental hospital getting real help.”

His voice keeps raising as he talks, but he doesn’t realize it until he’s silent again and Charlie’s giving him a concerned look from the other front seat of the ATV.

“So he’s not doing okay even though he’s back home?”

“Did you really just ask me that?!” Patrice demands, jamming his foot down on the brake so that he can take a moment to glare.

“Um… okay, Bergy. I’m sorry.”

He comes back to reality and wonders what the hell he’s doing and why he’s doing it. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m not… I’m not mad at you.” Patrice starts driving again. He doesn’t feel like himself. That thought leads him to wonder when was the last time he actually  _ did _ feel like himself. It wasn’t recent.

“Dude, don’t take this the wrong way, but it kinda seems like you’re about to snap and choke one of us to death in our sleep pretty soon.”

“Now I have to ask if there’s any  _ right _ way to take that.”

“When you stare off into space, what’re you thinking about? You do that kind of a lot lately.”

“I mostly worry about Brad.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

“I don’t think I want to keep talking about this.”

“Okay, then.”

The remainder of the thirty eight minute drive is spent in agonizing silence, watching the rocks go by as they follow the conduit to the solar farm. And once they get there, very predictably, Patrice is sitting on his ass watching Charlie work as soon as the twist-valves on their rebreather canisters have been opened. He picks up tools from the kit and studies them out of sheer boredom, thinking about how they came to be invented in the first place. Who, exactly, was the first one to have the idea for vice-grip pliers?

Patrice comes to a sudden and startling realization that he’s somehow started to really hate his job.

Or does he? He could just be indescribably frustrated with what it’s done to him and to Brad. Maybe he doesn’t hate his job. He can’t be sure. But he doesn’t have any other word for it right now besides  _ hate. _ Because he’s sitting here, doing nothing and being useless, playing with a screwdriver while his colleague does all the work. Meanwhile his fiancé is back on Earth getting his brain picked by strangers who don’t give a damn about his mental health beyond the data it provides them for their studies. Yeah. Hate seems like a pretty good word for this.

Patrice’s gloved fingertips brush a thermite flare, kept for emergencies in every single toolbox and on every single vehicle. Thermite flares are actually incredibly dangerous, they can burn underwater and melt through almost anything. He picks it up, rolls it around in his palm. These things can hurt or kill people, destroy pressure suits. The idea creeps up on him that maybe he could “accidentally” hurt himself with one and get sent home. Thermite flares are so dangerous. It would take all of two seconds to give himself a third degree burn. He plays with the cap. It wouldn’t be that difficult.

“Hey Bergy, can you run some tape over to me?”

Charlie’s voice on the comm smacks some sense into him. Patrice says nothing as he carries a roll of adhesive tape over to his colleague, wondering how the fuck this was something he’d been seriously considering a few seconds ago. This wouldn’t be an injury, it would be a death. He’s way too far from shelter to be rescued if he compromises his pressure suit in such a huge way as burning a hole in it, and if he dies it completely defeats the purpose because getting back to Brad does kind of hinge on him not being dead.

Patrice gives Charlie the tape and goes back to sitting and thinking. He needs to come up with something. He needs to get home to Brad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT I JUST REALIZED I'VE BEEN POSTING THIS FUCKING THING FOR SIX MONTHS NOW. Somebody should give me a cake. (Actually I don't like cake. Brownies are better lol!)
> 
> So... depression is scary. You really get thoughts like this. Imagine a computer virus infecting an operating system... the OS doesn't realize it's running any differently than before, but the reality is that pretty much everything is going wrong and self-destructing. That's what depression is like. Even if you know logically that something's wrong, you still don't quite realize how sick you are. Patrice does not realize how sick he really is anymore. He vaguely knows this is abnormal but that idea doesn't connect to him, which is why it now seems perfectly reasonable to him that he should deliberately put himself in danger.


	30. Last Week of August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a shocker: the chapter goes up early! This is due to the fact that I have a xmas party to go to tomorrow morning so I have to actually sleep first. I haven't been sleeping well lately to begin with and am chronically tired. So the chapter goes up twelve hours early.
> 
> Okay so Bergy pretty much completely loses it in this chapter... this is a pretty heavy mental health issue that gets tackled so if you want I'm putting a spoilery trigger warning in the end notes for this chapter, that way you can look and see if it's something that'll really fuck you up.

Patrice stands quietly and listens. They don’t know he’s here and he’s kind of glad they don’t, even though he’s supposed to be showing up for therapy. But this is much more interesting, especially because it’s something he didn’t need confirmed - that Dmitry Kagarlitsky, the guy who’s supposed to be helping him, is almost as bad off as he is.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Krej insists. “Actually, you drink too much, but that’s beside the point.”

“Then why isn’t he improving?” Dima demands. “I’ve almost exhausted my list of options by this point. Two astronauts became mentally incapacitated on my watch. One of them is now gone because my methods are ineffective and it’s definitely looking like I’m being exactly as helpful to Bergy as I was to Marchy.”

“Dima, Dimochka. Listen to me.” Vadik is so calm. “Those two… there is no help for them here and there never was. Not without psychiatric medications, which you have no access to. Look at them objectively. They both suffered an extreme amount of trauma which drove them to a state of mutual codependency. Their issues had a feedback loop between them. Marchy right now is a candidate for hospitalization as soon as the various space agencies are through with him, which could last an indeterminate amount of time. Men come home from war with the type of problems he has now, and at the same severity. You didn’t have the resources he needed. That’s not on you. In fact it’s on me. This is my study. I kept Marchy here.”

“I know, but. I could’ve. I should’ve done something. I missed something.”

“You didn’t,” Krej argues. “Marchy lied on his psych eval after the very first incident with his suit. I should’ve sent him home back then. You weren’t even here. You’re not responsible for his poor choices, for me not being as thorough as I should’ve been, or for Vadik’s lack of foresight. This isn’t your fault. Marchy’s not your fault. Bergy’s not your fault.”

“Speaking of Bergy, shouldn’t he be here by now?” Vadik wonders, of course choosing to look into the main area of the infirmary and immediately spot Patrice eavesdropping on them. “Okay. Bad news everybody.”

“What?”

“He is here, and he just heard _all_ of that.”

“I’m going to go eat,” Patrice decides. He all but throws his notebook at the door of the office. “Happy reading, Dima.”

If asked, he’s not sure if he’d be able to explain why exactly this makes him so upset, but it does. It’s not quite time for dinner, so there’s nobody else in the cafeteria. Patrice tears open a can of food so violently that most of it ends up on the floor and his hand slips exactly wrong across the sharp edge of the lid.

“Mother-fucking-sonova-bitch!” Patrice howls, pegging the offending object into the wall and grabbing a paper towel to mop the blood and debris off his skin.

It gives him an idea.

“So, we’re hitting the ‘combative’ stage now?” Krej asks in a tone that’s way too casual as he comes in and sees the mess.

“What?”

“Inexplicable feelings of rage? Acting out for no reason?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. What did that food do to you to earn this undignified death?”

“I cut myself on the can by accident. Most of it spilled anyway.” Patrice grabs a fresh paper towel and presses it down on the gash in his skin.

“Are you angry with Dima?”

“Not exactly. No. I’m not angry with Dima,” Patrice decides. “I’m not mad at anybody. Or maybe I’m mad at myself or something. I don’t know anymore. Something’s misfiring in my brain if you didn’t get the memo, Krej. I can’t even explain anything.”

“Okay. That’s reasonable.”

Patrice’s level of situational awareness starts to stutter after that. He loses time between cleaning up the mess on the floor and eating food that he apparently warmed up without slicing himself up a second time. It feels like everyone’s talking around him, but he can’t blame them. He wouldn’t want to talk to him right now either. He loses more time between the last bite of his meal and watching Team Prefix play Team Sharps Precautions. Jake trips over Backy’s stick and Bruce calls a penalty over it, but otherwise it’s not that exciting. Patrice doesn’t remember when he lost interest in hockey.

It’s almost like skipping forward in a movie. He stops paying attention to the world around him at very random moments, which means he skip-hops from a hockey game to a shower to watching a movie by himself in the rec area when everyone else is going to bed. He can’t sleep tonight, mainly because he can’t set an alarm for himself. He has the means to but it would alert everyone else that he’s getting up at a weird hour, so the next best option is to simply not sleep in the first place. It means he stays on the couch, picking a hangnail on his thumb and playing movie after movie that he’s already seen. The timing needs to be perfect, because his objective is to get caught.

So he sits.

He waits.

He thinks about Brad. Brad’s who he’s even doing this for, after all.

The minutes seem to be taking twice as long to pass just to spite him. Patrice checks his watch constantly, but really he marks the passage of time by the endings of the movies. He’s going through so many of them. He needs to make it to 06:25, because Krej and Backy get up at 06:30 and he needs them to catch him in the act. It’s like that cosmonaut from _Perviy Institut_ way back when. That cosmonaut got to go home. Patrice needs to go home and find Brad, because Brad’s not safe without him.

Patrice gets impatient when his watch reads 06:19 and heads for the infirmary.

His hands are shaking - he’s not sure if it’s because he’s tired or because he’s nervous. Maybe it’s both. He opens drawers and cabinets, rifling through stuff but trying not to make too much of a mess because it’ll be less inconvenient for his colleagues that way. He can’t remember where the surgical supplies are and it takes too long to find them. He feels a little bad about this because now Backy will have to re-sterilize an entire pack of scalpels - when he tears open the sealed plastic envelope most of them explode onto the floor. Two are left inside, though, so they’re still clean. He sets the pack down on one of the bedside tables and starts rolling the sleeve of his coverall.

Patrice’s hand won’t cooperate.

“Fucking do it, you coward,” he hisses to himself. He has to do this. If he doesn’t he can’t get home. “Come on.”

Sucking in a breath and holding it, he grips the surgical tool as tightly as he can in his fist and stabs it into his arm just below his elbow. It hurts, god does it hurt, he somehow didn’t expect it to be so bad. Even with that he manages, somehow, to drag the thing almost all the way down to his wrist before he has to stop, yanking the scalpel out and dropping it. He sits with his back to the foot of a patient bed, cradling his arm with a pathetic whine of pain as blood pours out of it. The wall clock tells him he has seven minutes until Krej and Backy get up for the day. Now that it’s too late to do anything about it either way, Patrice wonders if it’ll take less time than that for him to actually bleed to death. He should’ve waited a couple minutes.

The fear crashes over him like a wave.

He screwed up, he knows he did, he’ll actually bleed out before they find him. He won’t make it back to Brad after all because he didn’t wait the extra two minutes, now his life is coming out of him and getting all over his clothes where it doesn’t belong. He should’ve waited, he should’ve waited, he should’ve waited, he should’ve waited, he should’ve-

Patrice gets smacked in the face, hard.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” Krej screams, dragging him up from the floor by his coverall. “ARE YOU STUPID?!”

Patrice just shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to answer.

“Okay, tourniquet him, I’ll do this,” Backy decides, also appearing. He glances around. “Bergy did you go through all my shit?”

He’s sat on a bed and one of those rubber strips gets tied way too tight above his elbow, then Krej stands there holding his arm over his head until Backy’s ready with gloves and a suture kit. Some kind of painkiller gets injected into a bunch of spots all around the wound and his skin gets disinfected; now, Krej pins his arm to the table while Backy starts sewing him up. Patrice watches them do this in a weird state of numbness. Despite the painkiller his arm still aches dully, but it feels like it’s been disconnected from his brain and he only knows it hurts because he understands that he’s injured and it’s _supposed_ to hurt.

Backy ties off the nylon thread and wipes the rest of the blood off his skin with some alcohol, then wraps him up in a bandage. “Congratulations, Bergy. You now get to spend the rest of your very short time here being watched by one of us every second of every day.”

Patrice doesn’t say anything because his mouth won’t work. He accepts the paper scrubs they give him and very slowly changes out of his ruined coverall while Krej’s eyes burn holes in his head.

Krej also knows him too well. “You know if you’d just said you were considering suicide we would’ve been able to send you home anyway without the fucking theatrics, Bergy.”

He shakes his head and words find him again finally. “No. It would take too long, there’d be paperwork.”

“Do you even fucking realize what you’ve done? I’m sure you didn’t notice this because you were all wrapped up in your own head having a fucking pity-party for yourself, but everyone was freaked out when Marchy had to be sent home. Now we’re sending you, too, after _this._ Next time you feel like doing something this fucking stupid make sure you’re at least not around a bunch of other people that it’ll fucking hurt, you jackass!”

“Okay, that’s _enough,_ ” Backy snaps, grabbing Krej and dragging him back a few steps. “Go have coffee or something for a few minutes.”

He leaves, quickly giving Patrice one more enraged glower before he disappears into the hall. Backy pulls over a chair, sits, and sighs heavily. “Bergy… why the hell did you do this? You should’ve come and talked to us first and you know it.”

“Because now I can go home.” Patrice shifts on the bed, bringing his knees up to his chin and hugging them. “There was a cosmonaut who did this, too. I read about it on an iPad when i was laid up at _Vtoroy Institut_ and that’s where I got the idea. I knew this would get me evacuated.”

“I see. And what do you think Brad’s going to say about this when you get home? You think he’ll be happy that you did this to yourself? Here’s a hint: the answer’s no. You didn’t think of that, did you? What about your family, and his? What do you think they’ll have to say about it?”

“You don’t understand… I had to do this. I have to go home.”

Backy shakes his head. “No, I do get it.”

It’s weird, the way he’s not yelling like Krej was. “How come you’re not pissed?”

“I _am_ pissed, this was a really bad decision for you to make. But I also know it’s not really your fault and screaming in your face won’t help things. Besides, you’re the one who’s going to have to live with all the consequences of this, not me. So there isn’t really any point in me spazzing out about it.” He sighs again. “You need to apologize though. First to Krej for scaring the living shit out of him like that, then to Dima for not trusting him enough to get you sent home if you’d just talked about this instead, then to me for messing with all my shit. You also need to apologize to Marchy when you see him again, because he’s going to get really upset with you really fast when he finds out you did this. And you need to apologize to yourself for doing it at all.”

“I’m sorry for going through your stuff and dropping all those scalpels.”

“That’s a good start. The supply drop happens in two days, so that’s when you’ll be evaced. Until that happens it’s protocol that you don’t get left alone, ever. Not even when you have to go take a piss. You’ve been reclassified as a danger to yourself and everyone around you. Do you understand?”

“…yeah.” He understands. That doesn’t mean he likes it.

“It’s also probably not a good idea for people to come see you and talk to you, this being Pasta, Brusky, Charlie, Tuuks and Z. Bruce and Vadik have to because they’re the ones in charge, and then there’s us medical guys. We’ll bring your food the same as when you were boxed.”

“What about my stuff? I have to pack everything.”

“We’ll do that in the middle of the day when everyone’s off working.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilery trigger warning: in the strictest technical sense, Patrice makes a suicide attempt in this chapter. HOWEVER it's done in order for him to be sent home, not because he's actually trying to kill himself. He does not die because he times it so that Krejci and Backes find him shortly after he does it in order for them to have proof that he should be immediately returned to Earth.
> 
> Related notes: in this case, Patrice did this for attention. I must now go into PSA mode and say that in the vast majority of cases that's not what it is. 98% of people who try to kill themselves are actually trying to kill themselves. If Patrice thought he had any options, any other options at all, he would not have gone to this extreme.
> 
> Krej yells at him - don't ever do that. Krej also smacks him - don't ever do that either. Even though he's a trained medical professional he was exactly wrong in this scene. Watching a close friend or loved one go through something like this is terrifying and horrifying, and people are prone to reacting poorly to such things. What you SHOULD do is either take them someplace safe or make the environment safe for them, and not make it about yourself. This is about them. If they want to talk about it, let them. Be understanding and as non judgmental as possible. If at any point you believe they (or you) are in serious danger, take them to an emergency room or call 911.


	31. Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnd here we have another round of: Why I Must Post The Chapter Early! This weeks episode - my Saturday will be spent playing dorky tabletop games from 11 in the morning to 7 at night, and my Sunday will be spent hanging out with people I haven't seen in a very long time because they're in Maine for New Years. So I need to actually sleep tonight and not wait until 1am to go to bed.
> 
> In other news, I really wish this one wasn't so short.

Soon.

Patrice turns that word over in his head. _Soon._ It’s so abstract. He’ll be home soon. Everything is moving around him but he’s still, because that’s how jump-gates feel when you go through them. It’s a sensation he’ll never have to suffer through again after this. In about an hour and a half, he’ll be home, fainting on a regular basis until his circulatory system remembers how to cope with the demand of Earth’s gravity once again. He’ll be back in the States in a couple weeks because Roscosmos isn’t that interested in him and his psychology, and then he’ll be with Brad again. Once that happens they can figure the rest out, how they’ll cope, what kinds of therapy or anything else Brad might need.

Leaving _Dacha_ was still something of a horrible experience. Charlie and Jake both hugged him and demanded to be invited to his wedding, but they also promised they’d swing by for visits during the buffer year since they’ll also be back in Boston. Dima had looked like he was about to cry and his words will probably bother Patrice until the end of time: _“I’m sorry I couldn’t fix you, Bergy.”_ There were other things, too, but those two in particular have left a mark on his soul. Because Dima shouldered so much of his and Brad’s problems but couldn’t help in the end; meanwhile, Jake and Charlie are what he wishes he and Brad could be, happy with each other and free of all the mental baggage they’re suffering under now.

Patrice and the two cosmonauts all throw up once they’re free of the jump-gate, and Patrice stares through the window as Earth grows closer. In a few minutes they’ll land in Russia and he’ll get flown to Moscow so that Roscosmos can interrogate him.

Something doesn’t feel quite right during the descent. Patrice can’t put his finger on it - nothing’s wrong with the shuttle, everything around him is fine. Something’s off about _him,_ specifically. It’s a strange but familiar sensation, creeping up on him, and he’s trying to place exactly what it is for almost five minutes. When he finally figures it out, he panics.

It’s his lungs.

His lungs got hurt on Mars where the gravity is lower, and recovered specifically to that gravity.

The gravity is stronger here.

He can’t breathe.

That’s why he feels funny.

He can’t breathe.

Patrice blacks out after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm… happy new years everyone?


	32. Time Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to post on time for once instead of however many hours early! Yay! Now here, have some more angst! :D

Patrice dreams.

Or at least they feel like dreams.

Sometimes.

Not always.

Doctors speak to him in Russian every so often.

He’s pretty sure those aren’t dreams.

There’s a tube in his throat.

He hopes that’s a dream, because being on a ventilator at _Vtoroy Institut_ was miserable and he doesn’t want to go through that again.

These doctors talk to him about oxygen, how his lungs need to remember this gravity again just like he thought and that it’ll take awhile for that to happen.

The ones he knows are dreams are when Brad’s face appears in his eyes, talking.

He can barely hear the words, which is stupid, because in real life his fiancé is usually too loud for no reason.

That’s how he knows it’s a dream.

Brad’s never quiet, ever.

But in these dreams, Brad whispers things to him, usually in English.

Sometimes it’s the only phrase Brad can remember in French: _I love you._

Which makes sense.

Because Russia doesn’t like gay men.

Except it’s a dream, so it shouldn’t matter.

The stupid thing is that in these dreams, the tube is still there, so Patrice can never talk to Brad no matter how much he wants to.

The doctors explain sometimes that they have him on medications to make him sleep so that he doesn’t spend so much time being uncomfortable.

He’s kind of glad for that, because it means he gets to dream about Brad.


	33. Third Week of October

_shitty things about lung injuries:_  
_1\. tied to an oxygen tank until a doctor says I’m allowed to breathe for real again_  
_2\. after lying around for more than a month and a half I can barely walk anymore_  
_3\. Brad is going to freak out when he sees me like this_  
_4\. even if I COULD walk around for real I would probably pass out after more than three metres  
5\. long train rides all the way to the end of Europe so that my flight back to the states won’t give me a pulmonary embolism and possibly kill me_

Patrice flips the notebook closed. He doesn’t think he’ll ever shake this habit and now he’ll have to buy more notebooks, but that’s probably not a bad thing. It helps him categorize his thoughts at least.

His notebook gets put back in his rucksack for him and the nurse switches him to a fresh oxygen bottle, then they stick him in a wheelchair and take him off the plane. Patrice really hates this, not being able to move around or do anything on his own. He knows it won’t be this way forever, but right now it really sucks and he can’t even go home yet - they’re bringing him straight to another hospital for evaluation. At least maybe this way Brad can come visit him for real instead of him dreaming about it.

What’s really surprising is the lack of bloodthirsty reporters with iPhones; apparently NASA didn’t disclose the date of his arrival back in North America, and he’s beyond grateful for that because trying to talk is exhausting right now. He and his medical attendants are met by two paramedics, who get him onto a stretcher and load him into the back of their ambulance for transport. It turns out to be some private government hospital or something, which makes him worry that his mom won’t be able to visit him here.

From the stretcher to another wheelchair, and from that wheelchair to a hospital bed. All his information gets confirmed and they give him his notebook back while the rest of his stuff gets locked up until he can leave again.

Patrice feels dizzy (not a new thing for him since he woke up for real in a Moscow ICU) and he should really just take a nap, but he’s got things to do. He knows the number to his mom’s cell phone off the top of his head and there’s a patient phone right next to him.

Two and a half rings. “Hello?”

“Hi mom, it’s me,” he wheezes in French. “I just got back.”

“There’s been some news stories about you a few weeks ago… Patrice, honey, you sound awful. What happened?”

He explains about his lungs, which takes almost five entire minutes and leaves him exhausted. “If you can you should come visit me… I might be here for awhile. Bring Brad too, if you can.”

“Oh… Brad’s been in the hospital for almost a month. They put him there the second he got back from Russia.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“I go see him every so often, he’s at Providence Behavioral Health. It’s supposed to be short-term but they still have him there because there’s nowhere else to put him right now. I still haven’t been able to convince him that you’re alive, the last two weeks he was in Moscow he went to go see you every single day and stayed until they kicked him out. He said you turned into a skeleton.”

Really? So those weren’t dreams? Now it makes sense why Brad was always whispering to him.

“I… he’s not wrong. I’ve lost a lot of weight, they put me on a vent so I couldn’t eat.” Patrice sucks in a breath through the tube in his nose and it barely helps. “Do they have phones there? I want to talk to him…”

“You don’t sound like you should be talking at all.”

“No, I shouldn’t. But if he really thinks I’m still over in Russia, dying or dead, then I need to talk to him so that that stops. He’s…” Patrice starts gasping for air and has to stop for a moment. “I want him to be okay.”

“He’s not.”

“I know. He hasn’t been for awhile, now.”

“He’s a little better now than when he first got back. They have him on a medication, he said he’s finally starting to sleep normally again.”

Patrice smiles. “That’s really good. It was so bad at the end with his sleep…”

“Alright. Tomorrow I’ll call you again and give you the number so you can talk to him. For right now, you need to lie down if you’re not already and have some rest so your lungs can get better.”

“Okay,” he cedes, mostly because his vision is graying at the edges by now.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and immediately pages the nurse so that he can ask to have his oxygen increased; his chest feels like it’s going to implode.


	34. First Week of December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it going up early this time? Because I'm fucking impatient. There's really no reason anymore.

“You look funny without having the thing there anymore,” Brad grins, reaching across to tap the end of his nose.

“Drive, Bradley.”

“You can breathe without it, right?”

“If I couldn’t they would’ve made me keep wearing it,” Patrice answers.

“I’m glad it’s gone, it’s creepy when people have tubes sticking up their noses like that.”

“The one I had to wear sleeping can go now, too. In a couple months I can probably start working again.”

“Cool.”

Brad always has to drive, now, when it’s both of them in the car. All the bad things happened while Patrice was driving up there, so now Brad’s the one who drives. Patrice doesn’t mind that much and it’s probably a good idea anyway, because of the two of them he’s the one with road rage problems.

“I talked to Clean Harbors about it already. They said once I pass the physical they’ll take me back right away.”

“Great. So you’ll get to spend all your time cleaning up heating oil in people’s basements when the tanks explode.”

“That doesn’t happen that often.”

“But don’t you have to wear gas masks and shit at that job?”

“Sometimes.”

“Doesn’t it scare you?”

“No.”

“Pat, why do you even have to go back to work? NASA’s still paying you.”

“My therapist says I have to, just like your therapist says you shouldn’t. Besides, I’ll go crazy if I have nothing to do all day. At least now I know it won’t be like this forever, I hate being an invalid.”

“Am I an invalid?” Brad asks indignantly.

“No, you’re disabled.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Bradley, we’ve talked about this already. Several times.” Patrice shakes his head. “Why are you trying to pick a fight with me right now? Are you anxious?”

“No.”

It’s an obvious lie. Patrice sighs.

“We can go home.”

“If we go home we won’t have anything to eat this week.”

“I can go out by myself and go shopping.”

“I’m fine,” Brad insists.

They go to the grocery store.

Patrice has a list of things. Lists are important for Brad, now. They can check off the items and have visible progress, that way he can see tangibly the time decreasing until they can go home again where there’s no crowds intermixed with the same five Christmas songs that’ve been playing on the radio for almost a month already. But it’s not just for groceries. They have lists for everything, every time Brad has to go out in public, because otherwise he gets anxious. Patrice can keep track of all these things in his head, but that’s not good enough anymore, so he writes it down in order to help. They never had written lists up there to take with them during field assignments. It was all in his head.

“It’s a soup I ate while I was recovering after my lung surgery,” he describes to Brad as he gathers up the vegetables. “And then I finally found the recipe for it online.”

Brad watches him skeptically. “Okay… and you do realize that you still can’t cook, right?”

“I just thought-”

“Pat, you burn water.”

“Well, fine, then you can cook it!”

“I will, god dammit,” Brad answers, then grins. “It actually does sound really good.”

Patrice smiles, too. “It’s so good. Besides, the weather right now is perfect for this kind of food.”

Three more things are crossed off the list. Patrice sends Brad to get two boxes of beef broth while he goes to find the actual meat that’s part of the soup. When he comes back around the endcap he drops everything he’s holding and runs down the aisle to where Brad is.

“Brad, breathe,” Patrice insists, pulling him away from where he backed himself up to the shelf behind him and into a hug. “Come on, breathe deeper than that, you’re hyperventilating.”

Brad’s shaking - he always shakes when he gets like this. But there’s no reason why this should be happening… except that there is. A few boxes of broth are scattered across the linoleum. They must’ve fallen off the shelf while Brad was grabbing something. Patrice says his name a couple more times but he doesn’t look like he can hear it. Something’s wrong, this isn’t normal. This isn’t like how Brad’s panic attacks usually are, because he’s always responded to Patrice talking even if that response is to fight or get angry and start yelling. Now he can’t hear and he won’t talk, he just stands there trembling with Patrice’s arms around him, like he went somewhere but left his body behind.

People are staring.

Patrice lets go of Brad and his hands ball into fists. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT?! MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!”

They all but run from him. Patrice practically drags his fiancé out of the store, to the safety of the car. They go home with no groceries and by the time they’re back Brad’s awake again, so Patrice explains what happened.

“I’m sorry, Pat.”

Brad curls up into a ball in the corner of the couch with his chin on his knees. Patrice sits too, wrapping him in a fleece blanket and hugging him.

“It’s not your fault. I’ll go out later and get the food, you can stay in and have a nap.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Brad, don’t worry about it.”

“It’s like I was there again.”

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

“I have to call my therapist now, don’t I?”

“Yeah.” Patrice nods and pulls him in tighter. “It’s not your fault… besides, what I did was way worse. Now I can never go back to that grocery store, I just screamed at all those people.”

Brad snorts. “Did they have it coming?”

“…maybe a little.” Patrice kisses the side of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clean Harbors is a HAZMAT contractor my boyfriend used to work for. It seems reasonable Patrice would go work for them, because it's demanding and has a high chance of injury, so that kind of reflects his real-life job/tendencies.


	35. Epilogue - Third Week of September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands together* Okay! Who's ready for this monstrosity to be over with finally?

“Okay, okay, be caref-OWW!” Patrice yelps.

His mother clicks her tongue at him. “This is what you get for not following the rules at work.” She throws away the mess of gauze and tape, and probably most of the skin off his neck from the feel of it.

“It’s not about rules, it’s about being in forty degree heat with lye-ash floating around everywhere,” he gripes. “You can’t wear a suit in that, so then you sweat and it sticks to your skin.”

“Then maybe you should’ve called out sick,” Guillaume suggests.

“What are you all bitching about over there?” Brad wonders.

Patrice switches back to English. “Lye ash.”

“Pat, it still looks pretty red there.”

“I’m not having wads of bandages in my wedding pictures,” Patrice snaps. “We’ll put fresh ones on once the guy’s done taking photos, it’ll only be about ten minutes or so.”

Those ten minutes are absolute hell.

The collars of his shirt and jacket slide all over the chemical burns on his neck, which means each time he’s smiling for the camera he’s secretly burying a grimace of pain. By the end of it Patrice doesn’t know how he hasn’t started crying because it’s gotten so bad. At this moment, he really hates his job for doing this to him.

“Alright, you’ll be fine,” his mother tells him while she smears aloe gel onto his burns.

“Ooowwwwww,” Patrice whines, grabbing his own legs and digging his fingertips in.

When she’s done taping gauze pads to his neck, Patrice gets out of his chair and wanders over to the cake to have a third piece. Brad picked this cake and he did a really good job in Patrice’s opinion.

Ilya Nikulin appears from thin air and smiles at him: “Apparently I’m not the only burned man… I didn’t think the other one would be the groom, though.”

Patrice snorts. “I work for a hazmat contractor, I’m pretty sure the foreman made it his personal mission to do something horrible to me the week before I got married.” He winces as he talks, but mostly because it’s been a year and his Russian is very rusty by now. “Your hands don’t look so bad, Dima was really upset when it happened.”

“Skin grafts and an annoying healing process… Dimochka’s naturally fussy about my health anyway, he worries for me very often without any good reasons.”

“That’s not always a bad thing.”

They both go over to where Dima and Krej are laughing about something. “It was really terrible, nobody could understand him.”

“We should get him one of those Rosetta Stone things before the buffer year ends,” Krej suggests.

“What’s going on?”

“Talking about Backy, he had to go do a medical report at  _ Vtoroy Institut _ right before we left and everything was a word-salad. Every other word was in English and half the words in Russian were mispronounced, the other half were just wrong completely. Eventually he just said the whole thing in English while I translated,” Dima chuckles.

Brad tackles Patrice from behind and almost knocks them both over. “Sneak hug!”

Patrice gets his balance back and rolls his eyes. “Bradley, you don’t have to sneak up for hugs. We’re literally married now. You can have hugs whenever you want.”

“I know, but this is more fun!”

“Only now? Could he not have hugs before?” Krej teases.

“Maybe there was a specified number that he could be rationed for the day,” Dima grins.

“Or possibly he could’ve had to pay a fee,” Ilya suggests.

Patrice rolls his eyes again, this time with a groan. “You’re all terrible.” He doesn’t mean it.

When everyone’s done gorging on cake and champagne, Patrice gathers up his husband and all their former colleagues for one more picture. The twelve of them stand together in front of the same apple tree that Patrice and Brad were married under earlier, arms across each other’s shoulders and with the shorter guys crouching in the front (except Brad, who’s on Patrice’s left). This picture is so important, he’ll hang it in his living room where everyone can see it between the ones of all Brad’s family and all Patrice’s family. These other ten guys are both of theirs, a strange extended family from extraordinary circumstances. Patrice helped pay for some of their plane tickets to get them here today so they could all stand together in Quebec while he got married. He won’t get to see most of them very often after this aside from Skype, but they got to come to probably the most important day of his life, and that’s what really matters more than distance. He’d never trade any of them just like he’d never trade Brad, and he knows it’s the same for them, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, my time as a Marcheron writer comes to a close. I'm satisfied that I went out with a bang and not a whimper. This fic was a massive undertaking and gun to my head I can only say that there was one fic which took more time and effort than this one to write. I do feel a little sad moving on from this pairing, but there will inevitably still be writing in my future as I struggle to finish writing my damn novel and some various other things. And who knows, there may be the occasional sporadic writing for these two again in the future, it's happened before for me in other fandoms that once in awhile inspiration will strike at random and I'll spit something out.
> 
> Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> Updates are on Saturdays... allegedly. It often occurs that they're posted Friday afternoon for various reasons.
> 
> Notes on the use of Russian in this fic:
> 
> Dima = DEEM-UH  
> Vadik = VAH-DICK  
> The titles for First Institute and Second Institute are switched interchangeably between English and Russian because the characters are constantly switching back and forth between the two languages, but it's never differentiated because all of them are fluent in both. However their home complex, "Dacha," is always called that because that word is a nickname and the most literal translation for that word is "summer vacation home" or "lake house."
> 
> I've never changed the title on a fic before but this works better, and also I put the original title there when I just couldn't think of anything. I like it this way a lot more.
> 
> Please comment. Author is discouraged.


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